


Miserere Mei Di

by KimieVII



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Human, Blood and Injury, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fictional Religion & Theology, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Manipulation, Minor Character Death, Minor Original Character(s), Naga Crowley (Good Omens), Possession, Possessive Lucifer, Religious Cults, Rituals, Sexual Content, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Supernatural Elements, Torture, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:01:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23501260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KimieVII/pseuds/KimieVII
Summary: Crowley used to be a god. A minor deity maybe, but a god nonetheless. He doesn't have much memory of that time, but if there's one thing he can tell with certitude, it's that it doesn't matter whether he's a mystic being, a cursed snake, or a mortal...he will never be free. He can't even begin to dream of mercy.—“...‘Eliminate my kind’ huh? Why the rescue, then?” That part Crowley just simply cannot make sense of. “I guess it’s not for my pretty eyes, is it?”Aziraphale purses his lips lightly but the way his gaze falls to the floor gives away he feels remorse.“Your kind doesn’t usually look so...human.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 86





	1. What Lurks In The Night

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another idea that I had for a long while. Multi-chapters fanfics tend to exhaust me so I hope I can finish this one. It would be quite the accomplishment for me if I do.
> 
> Please mind the tags. I believe it's not as dark as it looks but there can be sensitive themes nonetheless. Keep in mind also that this Alternate Universe introduces new terms that are not found in canon. Some chapters might be confusing at first, but everything is explained in due time.
> 
> Last but not least, a huge thank you to [PicturedArtist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PicturedArtist/pseuds/PicturedArtist) for agreeing to beta this fic!

The only sound that can be heard in that street that night is merely a whisper muffled in the dark. There is a choked gasp followed by a moan, both so faint they barely rattle the thick silence in that part of London. In fact, the air is so quiet it’s suffocating, and the stillness of it spreads its murky limbs to every nook and cranny of the area like a fog swallowing every sound. In this mist, infinite and mucky, _he_ has fallen.

No one usually wanders these dark alleys during these unholy hours of the night. They have that sort of reputation about them. Most locals know better than to linger about these parts of town when daylight falters, when carefreeness turns into repeated looks over a shoulder. There is something about nightfall in that neighborhood. It’s something akin to anguish, and it creeps up your spine when the setting sun is starting to cast elongated shadows. Unconsciously, people start walking faster, hurrying to the safety of a home. It’s not so much because of worrying noises, it’s the _feel_ of evil, crawling all around in dark corners and willing to cause harm.

It’s not just a feeling, though. Malicious creatures are unquestionably crawling around, and Crowley usually resides among them, but he’s not one of them. His wounded body is lying against a wall at the deep end of a blind alley, waiting to be eaten alive. His breath is ragged, his eyes are closed, and when he opens them at the faint sound of footsteps drawing closer towards him, they look as unholy as the beings lurking all around him. They are a bright yellow, shining like a dying star in the night sky, and they pierce right through what he assumes is a lost soul wandering about, though wittingly advancing forward in his very direction.

The sharp stare takes the wanderer’s breath away, but it doesn’t seem to deter them. It does make them look a bit more hesitant, however. Crowley watches as what appears to be a man take a few more steps to close the distance before kneeling beside him, and he shivers noticeably when a tentative hand touches his shoulder. As he exhales a trembling breath, he thinks he can see blood on the stranger’s hand. He’s not sure if he is hallucinating. His mind is lost in a haze and his sight keeps zooming in and out. Everything blurs at the edges and he feels dizzy. As a result, he can’t tell, really, if this truly is blood.

From the corner of his eye, he catches something viscous on the concrete where he lies. It’s reminiscent of what he saw on the hand that touched him, and further confirms he’s actually bleeding out.

Ah. So it is _that_ bad, he thinks briefly, before reeling further down; the feeling of falling returning with far more vigor.

He surrenders to it, and loses consciousness.

When he comes back to his senses, he’s no longer cold and dying in a dirty street. He finds himself in a rather cozy place and quickly notes he’s lying on a sofa. There’s a woolen sheet on top of him keeping him warm and a cup of what looks like tea greeting him on a side table beside his head.

Crowley blinks a few times, and as his hand moves to reach his eyes, he quickly notices two things: first, he can’t find the tinted glasses he usually wears, and second, shifting his arm slightly is enough to awake the ‘once dulled’ pain. A low growl rolls from his throat, which in turn draws the attention of the owner—who most likely is no other than the same person who brought him here—to where he is laying.

“Oh, you’re awake,” the man says with a gentle smile. He must have been out of the room before Crowley woke because he is currently carrying a basin with steam rolling away from the rim. He has also rolled his sleeves up his arms where he could hang two neatly folded rags. He makes a small place for himself on the sofa next to him, and carefully puts the basin on the floor at his feet. “This is good,” he adds. “I must admit, tending to your wounds while you laid unconscious was making me a little tad nervous.”

“Wha-?” Crowley’s voice is much weaker than he expected it to be. He finds immediately that talking is just as painful as moving. “Wait, what… _who_?”

“Now, now. Please stay still,” the man says again with another smile, and a now damp cloth in hands.

“ ‘m fine,” Crowley mumbles, but he knows the lie isn’t bought, and he isn’t surprised when it earns him an instant hush.

Whoever that man is, that discussion, and any other questions he’s got, clearly won’t be addressed now. And he can't deny some help would be welcomed regarding all the…bleeding problems. So he abdicates.

He is baffled, above all else, that this is even happening at all. He can’t exactly dwell on the thought though, because he can suddenly feel the cold air on his skin as soft hands proceed to delicately peel the bloody shirt—or rather, what remains of his shirt—from his skin. It tears off a new growl from him, which he isn’t proud of.

His chest is a mess underneath, and he can no longer feel his shoulder. Some of the blood has already dried and coagulated in places, joining bits of hair, tissue, gravel and skin, all stuck together. Despite the gentleness the stranger puts forth in the operation, it makes the process of removing his shirt unbearable and he hisses in pain. Apart from the occasional complaints, Crowley remains mostly silent while the warm, wet cloth is taking care of most of the filth, and he decides to focus on the stranger while he is being looked after.

The man seems to be around his fifties. He’s well dressed, with a pale shirt under a beige waistcoat. He’s got soft features and a good-natured face. Overall, he’s leaning on the chubby type, which only contributes to accentuate the general feeling of kindness and safety he is inspiring. His curly, white-blond hair looks fluffy, and if anything, the entirety of this man reminds Crowley of a cloud—soft-looking, all around. It makes him feel safe and warm, and because those are such foreign feelings, his first reaction to them is wariness.

He can’t allow himself to be vulnerable, leave his body to some stranger’s hands—however nice, still foreign—and yet here he is, agreeing with so little resistance to get his injuries treated. Even if it turns out he couldn’t trust those hands, and the man ends up betraying him, he finds he doesn’t care one bit. Crowley doesn’t know him, and yet there is nothing inside of him squirming in alarm or warning him of danger. He has lived many, _many_ lives and died just as many times. He’s got enough experience in survival to trust those instincts.

His trail of thoughts is interrupted when something different from the warm, damp cloth touches his wounds. And this time? He _screams_.

“Oh, I am most unforgivable,” the man is quick to apologize. “I gave you a warning, and I thought…I mean it looked like you were observing me, I didn’t think you didn’t hear me. I should have known when I didn’t see any reaction from you. I am so, deeply sorry.”

Crowley concludes he was so lost in thoughts during his observation, his brain didn’t even register when he saw the man talking to him. Most likely to warn him that he was going to apply alcohol to his wounds.

“I’m fine,” Crowley says once more, between gritted teeth this time. He realizes the other man is waiting for his go-ahead to continue his ministrations and he gives it. “Keep going.”

“Alright…” The murmur above his head is so soft, it soothes Crowley a little, and he braces himself for the burning that he knows is coming back.

Eventually, this is all over and the stranger allows him a break. Even if he fought it, Crowley thought, he wouldn’t be able to stay awake anyway. And so he lets himself drift asleep.

He wakes up hours later, still in the same place, tucked into that same sofa. His fever has broke and he feels slightly better, if not only a bit groggy. Referring to the luminosity of the room, he reckons it’s sometime around noon. A quick look down and he sees his chest and shoulder have been bandaged. They still hurt, but it’s nothing comparable to the state he was in the previous day. Or at least, he assumes it was the previous day.

The owner is nowhere to be seen and Crowley takes a moment to contemplate, now that his thoughts seem more coherent and now that he doesn’t feel like he is hallucinating anymore. First, he can establish that what happened the previous day really did happen since he is in the same place where he awoke the last time he was conscious. Now though, he is not certain exactly how he found himself there, to begin with. He remembers being ambushed by some ‘drudes’ in the East End district of London he was searching through. He remembers finding himself overpowered even though he used all the tricks and little power he still owns as the deity he used to be. He had been deprived of those for so long that he still felt too weak and rusty to be able to fight back properly.

The thought leaves him miserable. When he thinks he used to be a god, now a bunch of lowly creatures spawned from darkness attacks him and all he can do is crawl away the moment he senses defeat and death hovering over him? This is pathetic. He knows it hasn’t been that long since he was given a human form…that he had remained a snake for thousands of years before that. He knows that it could explain how uncomfortable and clumsy he feels now that he’s back on his feet—now that he’s got any foot at all—and he knows it’s not like he was given back all of the powers he used to have, but it’s still a rather depressing thought.

He still wonders how that human found him. No one in their right mind would walk down a pitch-black back alley at three in the morning in an old, abandoned industrial area of London, now notorious for all its deserted facilities (either left to rot or more recently explored by drunk teenagers and ghost hunters). Unless they were some sort of criminal trying to dispose of a body. And, don’t they say appearances are deceptive. The man definitely doesn’t fit the description of ‘dangerous criminal’, but the wolf sometimes dresses as a sheep.

It still feels off, though. Crowley is no mere human, he can sense evil when he encounters it, and this man didn’t give him off any kind of feeling even remotely approaching something corrupted, dangerous, or harmful.

Nonetheless, that doesn’t give him an answer as to how or why he was brought here. Why some stranger tended to his wounds and let him stay under his roof, especially since he _must_ have seen his eyes. Every other human would have run in fear. Maybe the bravest souls would have left him at a hospital. Maybe. Best case scenario.

It just doesn’t make any sense.

Crowley would have loved some answers regarding this odd encounter, but he is also reluctant to linger in some stranger’s place. He’s got a report to make and more investigations to run. After all, his Lord didn’t return some of his powers back to him and give him a body without a reason. He’s got a job to do, a deal to honor...and his freedom to win.

A low, painful hiss escapes his lips as he moves to sit up. He will heal quickly, but the first hours will still remain painful. He hates that about corporeal forms.

He is already on his feet when he hears the front door open with the ring of a bell, indicating he is actually in some sort of store. Now that he has a better overall view of the place, he can see that, indeed, there are a lot more books around him than the average housing would normally hold. Even for the house of a crazy book lover.

The man who bandaged him quickly enters his field of vision and greets him with a smile, soon falling with concern as he notices Crowley is up and walking.

“Oh, hello. I…” He pauses a moment, looking for his words. “Shouldn’t…shouldn’t you rest a little longer?” he asks, carefully.

Crowley feels the need to look at his feet, to cast a shadow over his eyes with his hair. He shrugs, or tries to at least, and does a poor job at hiding how the casual move earned him a new tug of pain.

“Listen. I appreciate the…” Crowley motions at his upper body and the bandages with a hand. “All that. But as much as I appreciate it, I never asked for anything. I don’t know you, and I’ve got some places to be.” He goes to move past his benefactor, but as he does so, the latter delays his leaving again.

“Oh…oh, how rude of me,” he hurries to apologize, with a tinge of panic breaking through his voice. He makes haste of removing his coat, only to let it rest on the arm of a fancy looking chair, before facing his guest again. “I must apologize. We didn’t really get a chance for conversation before. My name is Aziraphale, I run this bookshop.” He marks his words with a whip of his head as if to indicate the place where they’re standing, before he holds out his hand at Crowley.

Crowley doesn’t shake it. Instead, he stares at it dumbfounded. That doesn’t explain anything at all. The little gears in his mind whirl at top speed trying to gather together pieces of this nonsense.

“…Uh. Are we…acquaintances…or something?” He blinks, uncertain of what is going on here that he is _deeply_ missing out.

“Not at all,” Aziraphale replies with a smile, leaving Crowley even more confused than before. “Not that I know, at least.”

Crowley keeps staring. He doesn’t know how to reply to that and, understanding his hand is not going to be shaken back, Aziraphale withdraws it awkwardly. With a jerk of his other hand, he knits his fingers together. 

“Right, ah…” he forces his voice through his throat after a minute, or two, and from there he can’t stop himself. The words cascade down his lips all at once at such speed Crowley has to keep his focus sharp if he doesn’t want to miss one. “Please, don’t get me wrong. I am not some kind of, uh, creep? If that’s the word… I mean, I only happened to find you. Yesterday. By that I mean, I heard moaning and I felt like someone was in distress, so I took a better look and there you were! You were feverish, and babbling nonsense, and looked badly wounded. So at first, I wanted to call an ambulance. But _then_ , I thought otherwise when I saw your, uh, eyes. They’re not human.

“So, and I hope you won’t hold it against me, I carried you here. I... Well, I am aware...or rather I should say I know what you are. You see, I am, yes, a bookseller. But I also belong to an order that…eliminates your kind, actually. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to, bring you to a hospital. I may not look like it, but I have enough medical knowledge to discern how badly injured someone can be and how to attend to them when I can. You needed no surgery, so I took you here. I guess this answers your questions. Or at least the ones I supposed you had.”

The spilling finally comes to an end and Crowley’s mind is spinning a little at the amount of information that was suddenly dumped on him. But while Aziraphale was speaking, slowly the pieces started assembling together at last. The whole situation is starting to make a semblance of sense in Crowley’s mind. There are still things he doesn’t understand, but now at least he has an idea of how he was found, and why he was brought here. It still doesn’t answer why he was saved at all, but at least it helped shed some light on parts of this mystery.

“...‘Eliminate my kind’ huh? Why the rescue, then?” That part Crowley just simply cannot make sense of. “I guess it’s not for my pretty eyes, is it?”

Aziraphale purses his lips lightly but the way his gaze falls to the floor gives away he feels remorse.

“Your kind doesn’t usually look so...human.”

“Ah. ‘This one looks human, let’s not kill it! Bad for my conscience’...” Crowley mocks, feeling, despite himself, a bit irritated at the words.

“That is not what I meant,” Aziraphale counters weakly. “Usually when I am…ah, ‘chasing’ evil”—the way he says the words Crowley can already tell he’s not comfortable with it—“I do not feel any kind of emotion from them. No anger, no pain, no fear…just, none at all. But _you_...you were hurt, and I could feel your distress. Your eyes shouldn’t have held those feelings, but you looked at me, and I saw something, there. More so, I also usually can feel when a drude is about to harm me. You didn’t feel dangerous to me at all.” Crowley scowls irritably at that and he allows a low growl to escape his lips. This one hurts. “I just simply couldn’t leave you here. It… It didn’t feel right.”

“I _can_ be and I _am_ dangerous I’ll have you know,” is the first thing Crowley thinks to say in return. “What if you made a mistake? You saved me and now I am off to havoc.”

“Maybe so,” Aziraphale concedes. “Maybe I did the wrong thing…”

Crowley watches as Aziraphale is turning all his focus on his own hands now. Maybe he is still torn at the decision he made.

There is a long pause and neither of them seems ready to speak again. Aziraphale’s gaze is avoidant. As for Crowley, he doesn’t know how he is feeling, but it’s a mix of different emotions sprinkled with puzzlement and uncertainty, which he doesn’t find pleasant at all. Eventually, he takes a few more steps forward and grabs his mangled, bloody shirt where it laid on the sofa.

“Are you leaving?” Aziraphale asks, hesitant.

“Yeah.”

“Oh, let me…” Aziraphale lets the unspoken words hang in the air and scurries to some place, at the far end of a room adjacent to the one where they were both standing. When he comes back, he holds a cardigan triumphantly in both hands. “You can’t possibly go out like this.” He gestures to Crowley’s bare chest. “This is the smallest I could find. It might still be a bit large for you, though.”

Crowley expects many things, but this, he never saw coming. He swallows hard, suddenly feeling vulnerable again. In a different way. It’s not so uncomfortable this time around. Despite the strange feeling, he can’t suppress a smile. What an interesting person that human is. He accepts the blue-ish cardigan and agrees to let Aziraphale help him out with putting it on. A gesture his roughed up shoulder is grateful for.

The knitted sweater is warm, and indeed oversized, but he will make do. It’s also definitely not his style but even he can see how walking in public without it would be a bad idea. Sure, he could use his divine powers to make himself clothes, but it's the first time someone is offering him something like this. It's nice. More than nice.

As he steps closer to Aziraphale, he allows himself another second in the warm presence. Aziraphale’s smell, somehow familiar, is driving him mad. His soul glows in a way that makes him feel warm just by standing near him. It’s like a gentle cover, placed over his shoulders. It is nice. Much nicer than he would allow himself to admit.

“Right. So…I’ll see myself out. Thanks for the help,” he eventually says, and before Aziraphale gets a chance to reply, he leaves the shop. He’s aware he is fleeing, but he can’t stay another second inside. It’s too much right now for him to process.

Aziraphale’s eyes are glued on his back, he can feel them. It’s a strange thing. This is like walking away from a friend, which is absurd, but he can’t shake the feeling away nonetheless. He could shrug it off and add the odd encounter to his long list of ‘bizarre’ things he’s seen or lived in all his numerous years on Earth. He could do that.

Crowley has lived many lives. In all his lives, it’s the first time he felt this kind of warmth. He thinks, perhaps he will return there, pay the ‘bookshop-owner-slash-slayer-of-evil’ a visit, give him back his sweater. Sometime in the future.

* * *

Entering the long tunnel leading to his hideaway always leaves Crowley with a bad taste in his mouth. There is a stench in the air, smothering and hot. Something like a mix of sulfur and scorched flesh. He can’t say he is a fan.

He traded the cardigan Aziraphale gave him with a tight turtleneck, upon which he threw a black leather vest, unwilling to give a chance to reveal how badly wounded he got. But even with that precaution, he’s afraid a sudden move of his body might entail a wince he won’t be able to hide anyway.

Still, he tries to act as nonchalant as he can as he finally leaves the underground railway to take a turn in a narrow byway, a little above his level on his right. There he has to go down a ladder, and after that starts his infinite descent through a staircase leading deep below the ground. The way down is a long one and the closer he is to his destination, the stronger the stink assaults his throat.

Eventually, he reaches the bottom and stops in front of a single metal door ahead of him. Closing his eyes helps to scan the area, just to be certain he is truly alone. Once he’s reassured, he places his hand on the heavy door. At the contact, it starts melting down, slowly, like waves and foam slithering together down a shore. It leaves in its wake a puddle of boiling silver at Crowley’s feet.

When the door has liquified entirely, Crowley crosses the small pool that was still bubbling on the ground. The moment he passes it, the door instantly returns to its initial form, following the same process in reverse, like a tape being rewinded, and shutting him out from light. Now he truly is in the dark. Actual darkness. The kind no humans should ever be subjected to unless they want to lose their sanity. He snaps two fingers together and sparks life to a row of candles, burning with flimsy, green flames. Crowley does his best not to betray how much pain he feels as he walks.

He approaches a throne, upon which is sitting something or someone in the shape of a man. The multiple wings attached to his body are a blinding white. Crowley knows better than to get too close, though.

“My Lord,” he says. It is nothing but a murmur, but one that is almost afraid to arouse the stillness of the place.

The winged creature then slides off his throne and glides gracefully, hauntingly, at Crowley’s side. A hand reaches up, before caressing his cheek softly.

The voice that addresses him is beautiful, and always charming, but low and dangerous. “Crowley, my dearest. Where have you been?”

Crowley swallows. Suddenly the bookshop where he was standing only hours ago feels, not only miles, but also an eternity away.


	2. The Morning Star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, a huge thank you to PicturedArtist for beta-reading!

_Savernake Forest, Marlborough. 2014._

“You asked for me, my Lord?”

The slithering form that just spoke is sliding smoothly on the cold, smooth stone of the cave where it resides, making its way towards the hooded man waiting at the entrance. The man turns around and an enthralling smile graces his flawless features. Now that the creature is at his feet, he simply bends down and picks up the elongated snake there, holding and lifting it above him as he speaks.

“Crowley, my beautiful,” he starts with a cajoling voice, addressing the reptile. “What do you say we make a pact?” He’s almost singing as he speaks, and in his hands the beautiful creature with sleek, black scales flecked with patterns of red remains silent, waiting for the meaning of his words. “How long have you been trapped on Earth? Six thousand years, was it? You must be so weary of that…‘shape’.” There is the faintest hint of disgust as the man pronounces the word. He waits for a reply, and when none comes, he goes on. “I know you’re capable of tremendous things. What if we, let’s see...alleviate that curse of yours? I could, for example, give you a human body. How does that sound?” 

This time the question needs an answer, and refusal isn’t an option, Crowley can tell that much. Or if it is, he may as well agree to subject himself to endless misery for the next thousand years to come. 

The long, black cloak the man is wearing floats eerily around his ankles, moving almost imperceptibly through the air as he walks decisively deeper inside the cave. He’s still holding Crowley in his hands, toying with him leisurely. He allows the snake to slip through his fingers, allows him to think for a second that he’s free to find the ground, only to catch him back between his fingers before he can reach it. Thus, he traps him in a merciless loop. 

Crowley doesn’t know anything about the deal he is being offered yet, but whatever it is, it couldn’t be worse than his current state. He has more to gain from it than to lose. And he can’t deny he’s been longing for a human body, for a chance to retrieve parts of his old grandeur. He would have to be mad not to jump at the opportunity to get some relief from such an unfortunate affliction like his own. What he would profit, he has desired for so long, he simply can’t pass a fighting chance like this one. 

The man holding him is still patiently waiting for a reply. He knows he will get one, but the air thickens and gets heavier around him with every passing second. It is a warning that if Crowley waits for a few more, the deal will be over before he could even hear about it. His chance will evaporate as quickly as it arose. Missed, and irreplaceable.

“What isss your deal, Lucifer, your Highness?” 

“Such a good boy,” the man referred to as Lucifer says with a pleased smile.

Lucifer. The Morning Star. A major deity from where Crowley comes from. Crowley regards him as his benefactor, mostly. And that would be because Lucifer was the only one out of all the gods out there to take pity on his wretched fate. Or at least, Crowley believed it was pity. He admires the god as much as he fears him. But ultimately, Crowley owes him an awful lot. He wants to feel worthy of every praising word. It doesn’t matter that disappointing his Lord is always, indisputably followed by great affliction. Crowley wouldn’t dream of betraying him. 

Lucifer strokes the snake’s head lightly, before letting him circle his shoulders. Crowley lets himself be handled and awaits to hear what he’s got himself into. Lucifer then leans in and whispers a few words in his ear. 

A nod from the reptile is all it takes before Lucifer starts drawing an intricate sigil in front of him with his hand. Crowley recognizes the symbol as Lucifer’s distinct signature. Every god owns one. It’s a personal stamp, an incontestable proof of what is his—impossible to fake, and in no way interchangeable. It looks like Lucifer’s finger is burning the air where it moves, as it leaves smoke in its trail. And when he’s finished, his signature bursts into flames. 

With a sharp pull of his fist, the sign comes to life and jerks forwards. Lucifer then moves his hand towards Crowley. As if tugged by invisible strings, the sigil follows the move and strikes the unsuspecting body, crashing against him violently. The snake writhes in pain as it scorches and marks his scales.

For a few more seconds, the symbol smolders and imprints itself where it hit him under his jaw. And when the remnants of burning flesh, blazing red on the snake’s skin, finally dissipate to leave in its place a fresh, smoky brand, Lucifer grabs Crowley by his tail. He uses his free hand to conjure a small, green flare and holds the small flame ceremoniously in the palm of his hand like one would hold something fragile, deserving of the utmost care. It is only a matter of seconds before the trembling fire then suddenly grows in size and intensity inside his hand. 

It’s not the first time Crowley sees Lucifer creating fire out of his own hands. The god is not actually burning himself when he does. It’s like the element and the deity are one. It always looks like the flames waltz and twirl around him like a gentle breeze. One that Lucifer can grip and mold to convenience, and one that he welcomes on his own body with intense delight. 

There’s a pause, during which Lucifer waits until the flames are reaching his upper arm and trying to lick the roof of the cave. And when they do, he throws Crowley in the bright fire. Crowley can only scream in fear and white-hot agony for a short moment before his body burns to a cinder and reduces to ashes in Lucifer’s hand. 

Crowley’s soul is still out there, though. It rises slowly from the heap of ashes. A small ripple through the air like steam waves, barely visible. Crowley floats eerily above his own remains and watches as Lucifer closes in a tight fist his hand around what’s left of his old body. 

When Lucifer opens it again, he reveals a pulsing human-like heart. He looks at his new piece of art with a satisfied smile before blowing upon it to sweep off the remaining flames, still devouring the beating organ. Then he turns his hand slightly to the side and lets the heart drop to the ground. But before it can reach it, a thick fog shrouds it entirely. Crowley’s soul feels irresistibly pulled towards it. It reunites with the heart almost immediately.

As the cloud of smoke dissipates, Crowley, with little grace, hits the ground on human hands and knees. He struggles for a while to catch his breath with brand new lungs while smoke is still floating around him, permeating through his mouth and nose slyly. Instead of breathing, he suffocates. A torrent of bright red, curly hair falls over his shoulders and covers his face while his hands scrape the ground to try and calm the ache that is still tormenting him. Even the cold air around him is not gentle. It makes his bare body shiver even though he just went through a blaze and was burnt to the core to resurrect this new form. 

When smoke is no longer bothering him and his laborious hiccups are being swallowed, he finally grasps his first breath. A hand seizes his chin and long nails scratch the tender flesh of his cheeks as he’s forcefully made to look up in the eyes above him. 

“There, there,” Lucifer says in a soothing tone, or something resembling one at least. “Doesn’t it feel better?” He doesn’t wait for a reply, doesn’t really need one, and keeps going as he caresses the sharp cheekbones. “Aren’t you going to thank me?”

“Thank you, my Lord,” Crowley says with a hoarse voice, one he doesn’t recognize as his own as first. It will take time to accustom himself to this body.

“Here’s a good boy. So let’s make one thing clear. This is a mortal body, and I won’t spare another one. This is the only chance I am giving you.”

“I understand, my Lord.” 

“Good. Would you say that you’re mine?”

“I am yours,” Crowley says, obediently.

“And that you will do as I say?”

“As always, my Lord”

Crowley realizes he’s made a mistake when Lucifer frowns, disapproving. “That’s not what I inquired.” 

The tone is one that Crowley learned to recognize as a warning. He tries to rectify himself, “I...will do as you say...my Lord.” 

That was what Lucifer wanted to hear...right? He hopes he guessed correctly. Guessing what Lucifer wants from him can be tricky, but his racing heartbeat eases a little when a satisfied smile can be seen back on Lucifer’s face.

“That’s better,” Lucifer coos and finally releases his grip on Crowley’s jaw. “Oh don’t take it the wrong way,” he adds, with a sickly sweet voice. “I don’t doubt your loyalty. However, take one step astray and I will turn you back into a snake whenever I deem fit. Behave, my dear. No other gods will give you penance, but you have my mercy.” 

“I won’t forget,” Crowley only manages to whisper. 

It’s enough to satisfy Lucifer. The man turns around and makes his way back towards the light at the end of the hole, leaving Crowley small and alone, and shivering from the cold on the floor. 

With a tentative snap of his fingers, Crowley tries and waits to see if he can still use his old magic; if he can conjure clothes on himself. It’s a pleasant surprise when he realizes that he can. To some extent at least. Lucifer was true to form in his words. He gave him back some of his powers. Crowley just doesn’t know _how much_ he is allowed. Though this is not a major concern at the moment. He scrambles to his feet now that Lucifer has left, then he takes a long look at his hands. 

… Hands. His own. Both ending with five fingers. He wiggles each of them, one by one, purely enraptured by their agility as if he’s learning all over again what it feels like to have them. It’s been so long; he still can’t believe this is not just a dream. But it isn’t. They’re real. All of it is real and Crowley simply can’t stop admiring his limbs. He moves and turns his hands in front of his eyes to look reverently at every angle they have to offer. Then he focuses on his arms and lowers his gaze to his chest, his legs, and finally his feet. He tries to walk and stumbles right away, but as he does, he’s laughing. He’s laughing so much he’s crying. The tears fall freely and he can’t stop them. He can’t remember a time when he was that happy.

* * *

As he looks at his hands now, Crowley can see several scratches and bruises on them. Maybe he should be more gentle with them, he thinks, hanging onto the memory of when he first got them back. That was five years ago. Five years since Lucifer gave him a human body and a chance at a new life somewhat approaching the one he used to have before everything went wrong. Before he was found guilty of some forgotten crimes, and punished accordingly.

Crowley doesn’t have many memories of his life ‘ _before_ ’. To be more accurate, the only thing he remembers is what he used to be: his title, his status, and the infinite variety of things he could do that a mere mortal couldn’t. It’s all he’s got. Everything else, he knows from Lucifer’s mouth.

If it’s anything to go by, Lucifer also told him that he was an outcast himself. Banned from the Celestial Realm a few centuries ago, he has told Crowley that he would win his war, even from Earth. His grudge against the ones who exiled him is strong and Crowley knows Lucifer would stop at nothing to achieve his goal. Contrary to Crowley, however, Lucifer’s only sanction was a permanent ban. Sure, he can’t use his powers like the way he could on the land of sanctity—where all the gods remain—but the fact remains that he is still a major deity. Even down here. He is still the _Morning Star_. His rank was and remains far above Crowley’s. And that much Crowley not only remembers, he intrinsically _knows_.

It was easy for Lucifer to track and find Crowley on Earth after he got banished. Crowley had lived on the mortal grounds as a snake for over five thousand years already. Five-thousand-five-hundred-and-forty-two years, exactly. Or rather, he had survived, more than he had lived. In the wild, without his powers, he was bound to the same rules as every other mortal creature, the only exception being that he couldn’t _die_.

Oh he could (and had) be hunted, torn to pieces, made into a fancy piece of clothing, brutally crushed, cooked, trapped between the claws of some ravenous beasts, fed to hungry beaks or, a few lucky times, he had simply passed of old age. But no matter what, and without fail, he was always given back a new life, a new journey. Most of which were short-timed.

It wasn’t mercy, it was a curse. It was meant to torment him. Crowley couldn’t remember what he had done that was deserving of such cruel punishment, but it must have been terrible for him to be tortured like this. 

All of that was before he met Lucifer, though. Or rather, before Lucifer found him and took him under his wing. Crowley was still a snake, sure, but suddenly it didn’t mean just survival. He had a shelter and protection. Lucifer had praised him so much, back then. He gave him as much freedom as Crowley needed, knowing the snake would always come back to him. He was right, that is exactly what Crowley always did.

Lucifer also spoke of the Celestial Land, the one that was now forbidden for the both of them. He told Crowley that The Almighty, the Mother of all gods, had left without so much of a word. That there had been a war after Her disappearance. He told Crowley that after She left, he had been fighting for the freedom of all the nocturnal deities—gods like he and Crowley. He said that was how he was eventually exiled to Earth.

A detail worth remembering for Crowley is that Lucifer never shied away from all his numerous questions about his old life. Even though there had been many times when he simply had said he didn’t know the answer, and at times, Crowley hadn’t been sure if he was lying or not, Lucifer refused none of them.

Now though, Crowley has been by the Morning Star’s side long enough to know what the deity can do, what he wants to do, and how to do it. Crowley sometimes wishes to separate himself from it, but he also knows he can’t. It’s as Lucifer said, he belongs to him. Even before their pact, Crowley wasn’t as free as Lucifer made it look like. He simply can not leave. And if he did, he would have nowhere to hide. Crowley was known as a Celestial Architect in his old life; a minor deity vastly outranked by the Morning Star. There was very little that a low ranking god could do against Lucifer. There is even less that he can do now. In the grand order of the universe, his hands are tied with those rules. If Lucifer wants him to live, he will live. If Lucifer wants him to die, he will die. 

Crowley accepts that. He is fine with that. That’s what he is telling himself now as he is staring at his own reflection on the shards of a broken mirror, inside the dirty bathroom where he waits for nightfall.

The place is empty and quiet. This is to be expected in this old squat, no longer visited after the local authorities erected fences around the decrepit buildings for safety reasons. Behind stained and broken glasses, the sunlight has been gradually decreasing. 

Crowley waits a little longer until it’s almost completely dark inside to tear himself away from the sink he had been leaning on. His hand reaches blindly and grabs tinted sunglasses which he slides on his nose, as to cover the only remaining evidence of his true nature that even Lucifer was unable to turn human. His body might have been built from ashes, but it’s not a perfect one. He wasn’t sentenced to become an imperishable snake without no reason, he rationalizes.

Making his way outside, Crowley takes advantage of the cloudy and moonless night to merge amongst the shadows. This time, he is heading to the outskirts of London. Southeast. This is where he senses the most activity tonight.

He is not disappointed once he gets there. Following the scent of wickedness led him to a small, abandoned chapel not too far from the road. And the first thing he notices as he enters is that there is a horde of _them_ inside. By ‘them’, he means creatures resembling ghouls that Lucifer calls ‘drudes’. And right now, they are much more numerous than Crowley is used to see.

He decides to sit in a corner, behind one of the pillars. From there, he waits and observes in relative peace. After his last encounter with those little bastards and what ensued, he’s not exactly eager to repeat the experience. Nor is he in the mood to subject himself to more wounds. The ones he got the night he met the odd human who saved him are now long healed. Still, for such a scenario to happen again is not a thought he wants to entertain tonight.

From time to time, one of the creatures gets too close. Crowley conjures snake fangs when it happens, and before the ghoul can give a shriek to alarm and gather its little friends, Crowley strikes and slits their throats. Thanks to the use of venom, doing this is usually enough to make them dissolve instantly. They’re not even given a chance to scream.

It’s been a few hours and Crowley has succeeded not to attract too much attention to himself, but he is starting to get thoroughly bored. The creatures are still roaming the place while no one appears to be controlling them. What’s strange is that their number also seems to be increasing but Crowley can’t find the source from where they keep emerging. 

With a small sigh, he shoves his chin in his hands and keeps watching, even though this is starting to feel like a waste of his time. There’s so many of them, he thought he had a good lead this time. What are they even up to tonight? There are no rituals performed around that could explain such a large presence. Things just don’t add up.

Some movement on his right, where the main door remains open, catches his attention. He has to double-check, and for a second he almost blows his cover, but there, at the far end of the opposite corner where he is sitting, he recognizes the man that rescued him a few weeks ago.

Now _this_ is interesting, he thinks as he sits back a little further in the shadow of his little nook to watch the newcomer with close attention.


	3. Aziraphale's Locket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some light is shed on what "drudes" are exactly, and a locket brings some interrogations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter turned out to be longer than I first intended. Thanks to PicturedArtist for reviewing!

Aziraphale. 

Crowley recalls that was what the man said his name was. Well, Aziraphale did say he was chasing drudes, didn’t he? Crowley has little knowledge about these ‘drudes hunters’, but he heard of them. They belong to an ancient organization of people well versed in the knowledge of the divine forces actually at work on Earth. And by ‘ancient’, he means very, _very_ old—from a human viewpoint at least. He wouldn’t be surprised if it already existed before Lucifer came to Earth—which was a little over four hundred years ago now, meaning this organization is centuries old at least. Their knowledge passed on to each generation between the walls of a small, secret Order consisting of fervent believers of one specific deity. Crowley doesn’t know which one. He is not even sure if the god they worship actually exists. And truthfully, he doesn’t care whether it does or not. What Aziraphale and these folks _do_ know though, is that such things as ‘drudes’ exist. And somehow they have acquired the tools to inflict them physical harm along the way.

In a way, this group of people is a hindrance to Lucifer. Not so much because they kill drudes, but rather because for the longest time, Lucifer was actually the only person responsible for the emergence of drudes. He was the reason those ghoul-like creatures, born from rituals and bloody offerings, appeared on Earth. And while Lucifer has no use of them really, he would rather some humans didn’t start snooping in his schemes. 

Crowley doesn’t have all the details as he does not partake in Lucifer’s rituals. But he does know that Lucifer has been the leader of a small sect for as long as he’s been on Earth. Crowley is not allowed in their meetings and is unfamiliar with their motivations—or with Lucifer’s for that matter. It was actually one of the few questions he was denied an answer. Not only did Lucifer refuse to acknowledge his interrogations, but he also made it clear not to ask about his activities with that cult again. So as far as Crowley can tell, Lucifer and his followers meet, they do whatever it is they’re doing in secrecy, and when they’re done, a bunch of drudes has been created. 

Those creatures used to be people, so it’s easy to suspect that human sacrifices are involved in what Lucifer does behind closed doors. In spite of their origin, drudes look nothing like people, though. They are more like…a shell of the person they used to be. Monstrous and misshapen bodies, usually mutilated in a way or another. Some with limbs missing, some on the contrary with too many physical attributes; more than you would normally see on the average human body—too many teeth, or eyes. They are no longer among the living. They are lost, tortured souls, roaming about and feeding on the living with their beastly canines. 

For how different they come, they still have traits that make them easy to identify. They all bear horns and glassy eyes, for one. They are pretty short, sizewise, and look more like shadowy silhouettes until you get close enough to be able to distinguish them more clearly. It’s thankfully no trouble spotting them from afar, as they groan inarticulate, throaty sounds and smell like rotting flesh. A distinctive scent that Crowley recognizes easily. Most importantly, they only manifest themselves at night. Based on Crowley’s observation, this is what they all have in common.

Recently, it has come to Lucifer’s attention that he was no longer the only person behind drudes’ birth. They are far more numerous than they ought to be, and they seem to come from unknown sources. Many questions constantly burn Crowley’s lips, but he knows better than to ask about Lucifer’s plan. When he’s told to investigate, to find where those new drudes come from and who is behind their creation, it’s with the knowledge that he won’t get more answers than that.

Extremely rare are the humans who possess the knowledge of the drudes. Usually, that is explained by the simple fact that any soul that has had the misfortune to cross paths with them is no longer around to share the tale. And then, you have people like Aziraphale, who, like he told Crowley, belong to that group of people who know how to fight them. 

Crowley isn’t uninterested, to say the least. On the contrary, he’s rather curious to see what Aziraphale can do. He watches in silence as the human manages to make himself a path between the swarming creatures by chanting some sort of prayer. That is how he makes his way to the sanctuary unharmed somehow. Crowley would whistle his cheering if he wasn’t hiding from the multitude of the disgusting creatures infesting the chapel. 

A common misconception among humans is that they believe that any kind of evil can be defeated or put at bay with salt. Or with a cross and unbending faith in God (as if there was one and only god. Not like Crowley can blame humans’ ignorance. It’s not their fault if the actual gods out there don’t seem to be interacting with mortals anymore). The humans are sadly mistaken. The truth is that if they can’t use a bit of magic, there is very little they can do against a drude. Aziraphale is too far from ear’s reach so Crowley can’t hear what he is saying exactly, but contrary to most humans, that one clearly knows what he’s doing here. And this is definitely some kind of spell. The words leaving his mouth are likely shielding him from harm. Whatever Aziraphale is saying, it’s doing its job, and he reaches the altar in a matter of minutes. 

In order to get a better view, Crowley has to turn around the column, but that involves moving forward and stepping out from his shadowy corner. Aziraphale is holding a flashlight and waving it around him, the beam lighting up the place in every direction. Crowley would preferably remain unseen, if possible, but decides to move anyway. He’s here to find out what is going on with those drudes after all. If Aziraphale can offer some clues, all the better for him.

It’s only after he shifts and changes his angle that he spots something on the floor where Aziraphale walked. It looks like a greenish powder of some sort. At least it looks greenish to Crowley from where he stands. He’s perfectly able to see in the dark, but the shade of his glasses tends to alter the actual colors around him. He can definitely see the dust-like path that Aziraphale spread there, though. He also notices how the drudes are carefully avoiding it.

Aziraphale is still reciting his incantation, but he is also now lighting up a long, thin candle with a box of matches. Crowley supposes he got both objects from the bag he’s carrying, hanging at his hip. It is only now occurring to him that whatever Aziraphale is going to do in the following seconds, it would probably be best if Crowley stayed out of it. Some spells can be powerful enough to harm every kind of beings, no matter how different in nature. Magic spells aren’t that picky. If they’re meant to wipe out something, they will do just that, and destroy anything else caught with it in the process. 

“Shit, shit, _shit_. Think of something.” Crowley mutters to himself under his breath. 

He stayed in one piece so far tonight, it would be stupid to end up harmed by a human this time around. After all, Lucifer put quite the emphasis on the fact that he was gifted with a mortal body. And that if he lost that one, he wouldn’t return to being a snake. Dying in this form would mean losing the only physical shell for his soul. It would mean truly dying now. 

He chooses to show himself when Aziraphale is about to finish wording his incantation. He’s not entirely sure it’s a good idea since the drudes vastly outnumber him from all sides, but it’s either that, or being caught in the blast. Fortunately for him, the moment he steps in a slightly better lit spot, Aziraphale catches sight of the movement right away. He ceases to speak altogether when he sees him. There is a short moment during which shock passes over his features. However short, it lasts long enough that he lets his guard down and one of the drudes is taking advantage of that moment of vulnerability to jump at him. 

Crowley doesn’t think. He dashes forward and reaches the altar just in time to shelter Aziraphale from the attack. The thin, cadaverous-looking creature drools and sinks the hundreds of teeth it possesses in Crowley’s left arm instead of the throat it wanted to reach. It’s far from being Crowley’s only problem. The other drudes around them are all quick to join their comrade. They gather, they close their sticky fingers around his arm or his legs, and then they start tearing the skin with their teeth where they land on his limbs. 

Crowley shakes his arm, more in annoyance than pain, to try to get rid of them. It doesn’t do much. Behind him, he can feel Aziraphale shifting and rummaging about with his hands stuck under his coat. Crowley is not sure what this is about, but the man’s elbow keeps bumping into his side and that is not exactly helping with their current predicament. 

“Whatever you’re doing, hurry up, yeah?” he presses. His jaw splits open to defend himself against the incessant onslaught and he proceeds to plunge his fangs in the neck of yet another drude who doesn’t seem satisfied with the sole taste of his arm. 

The creatures that are not already stuck on his limbs are now turning their focus onto the rest of his body. It is quickly becoming a serious problem. Crowley is starting to regret ever leaving the safety of his hiding spot. 

“A moment,” Aziraphale says in response, voice a little shaky. 

That was not the answer Crowley wanted to hear. He can actually start to feel the pain in his left arm. It’s intense and vivid. He wants to urge Aziraphale, to tell him that they don’t have ‘a moment’ here, but as he opens his mouth to talk, Aziraphale utters a small exclamation of triumph. Crowley turns his head to the side to see him brandishing a rusty sword with a look of victory on his face. 

Crowley raises an eyebrow, skeptical. His doubts quickly evaporate when Aziraphale starts chanting again and the sword he is holding is curiously vibrating in response. Once the words are spoken and Aziraphale falls silent again, Crowley almost jumps in surprise as he watches what is happening to the sword. It looks like it was just caught on fire and it now shines proudly in Aziraphale’s grip. It’s not just an illusion, Crowley can feel the heat of actual flames where he stands next to Aziraphale.

He whistles in admiration but deflates almost instantly when he sees how Aziraphale is wielding it and how he flails it around, barely hitting their enemies as he does. It’s a shame that such an impressive weapon has not found more experienced hands. Aziraphale is possibly a novice, or maybe it’s just that he is unskillful. Whatever it is, the sword is clearly not a tool he is used to work with, but it does the trick anyway. The fire scares the drudes away and Crowley’s body is soon freed of all the pests. It also gives them a little space. Even if Aziraphale doesn't seem to know what he is doing with the blade, swinging it around them is enough to create a small ring of empty space where both of them can stand safe. Like two shipwrecked on a tiny rock, alone in the middle of the sea, and surrounded by hungry whatever-it-is-that-is-hungry-in-the-seas. 

It’s not much, but it gives them a little time to collect their thoughts. It also allows Aziraphale to resume his first incantation, the one he was about to finish before he spot Crowley, earlier. He has to start the whole thing all over again, but this time he manages to go all the way to the end. The moment the last word of the spell is spoken, the small particles of that strange powder he’s been disseminating about set ablaze, catching aflame all the drudes standing the closest to the path he made with it. 

It is a dreadful thing, that destructive fire. It is a ferocious beast, burning a fire so ardent that it shines a bright red and spreads from a drude to another, hunting and catching every last of them as it runs wildly around the place. It consumes them entirely, one after another, until Aziraphale and Crowley are the only ones left inside the walls. Now more than ever, Crowley is thankful he made his presence known. The flames didn’t target him, and truth be told, he isn’t sure what would have happened if they did. He doesn’t want to know. 

The site has regained its quietness. The only shadows that can be seen moving now are the ones from the ashes of the multitude of drudes that were crowding around mere seconds ago, stirred in dusty, little clouds by a gentle breeze. 

Aziraphale and Crowley look at each other. There is a pause, and then they both fall into laughter. The kind of laughter you burst into as a way to release some of the anxious energy you’ve been building up.

“That...that was something,” Crowley says eventually, when the euphoria finally starts to subside.

“It certainly was,” Aziraphale agrees. He’s still laughing as he speaks, but his smile falls from his face when he catches a quick glance at Crowley and spots blood where his clothes got lacerated. “Your arm… You’re bleeding!”

“Nah, it’s nothing.” Crowley shrugs, before taking a closer look where Aziraphale is pointing at his arm with his finger. In all honesty, it’s not exactly ‘nothing’, but compared to the state of his wounds when they both first met, it’s nowhere nearly as bad. “‘It’ll heal in no time. Barely stings.” He tries a reassuring smile, but Aziraphale looks half-convinced. 

Crowley is actually telling the truth. Well, _maybe_ it stings more than just ‘barely’. Maybe it actually burns and aches, but he’s not lying about the severity of his injuries. And it’s not so much that Aziraphale doesn’t seem to believe him. No, it’s more that he looks like his mind is...elsewhere. The sword in his hand has come back to its original state. Not only is it no longer ablaze, it even looks cold now. Like it wasn’t irradiating with flames just moments ago. Crowley doesn’t feel compelled to touch it as a means to verify if it truly returned to its initial frigidness, however. 

“What were you-”

“So why are you-”

They both start at the same time and when they realize they spoke over each other’s voices, an awkward silence takes residence between the two. It doesn’t dwell there for too long, though. Crowley is sick of this place, but he wants to question Aziraphale about his presence here. He’s about to say something when Aziraphale beats him to it. 

“I should bandage those,” he offers.

Crowley doesn’t need Aziraphale to specify what he means by ‘those’, but he can’t suppress a laugh of disbelief. “Again?”

Really, he can’t believe the irony of the situation. Especially when he made a point to himself not to end up the same way as when he last had to deal with drudes. It went as well as one could expect. Not only did he hurt himself again, but the same human is one more time expressing that...surge of charity. What is he really? Just some good Samaritan? Crowley almost wants to genuinely ask, but Aziraphale is once more speaking before he can add anything.

“Yes, well… don’t make a habit of it.” 

Crowley makes a grimace. “Believe me, it’s the last thing I want to do.”

“Am I that bad at this?” Aziraphale almost looks offended, but there’s a hint of amusement in the way his mouth twitches slightly in a discreet smile, and Crowley isn’t so sure anymore if he has truly hurt the man’s feelings, or if he’s being teased. The more he looks at Aziraphale, the more he believes it is the latter.

“Not what I meant…” he says, voice so low that if Aziraphale wasn’t standing close to him, he probably wouldn’t have heard him. Crowley doesn’t elaborate, though. He supposes it’s not even necessary. He sighs and tiredly runs a hand through his hair. “I think I need a drink…”

“I think I could go for one as well,” Aziraphale agrees. 

Before they leave, Aziraphale is reaching inside his bag again to retrieve bandages and more supplies from it. It’s obviously a first-aid kit and Crowley can’t help but make a note of how Aziraphale seems equipped for all kinds of situations. Maybe he shouldn’t be so surprised. Those humans have been dealing with drudes longer than he had to. They know what to expect and how to come prepared. 

He allows Aziraphale to clean his blood-soaked limbs and to wrap gauze where teeth have sunk the deepest. It’s a job done neatly and quickly but Aziraphale is frowning throughout the entire time. Is it because he is worried, for whatever reason, or because there’s no sign of his previous injuries, Crowley can’t tell. Aziraphale makes no comment on it.

When Aziraphale has finished repacking his equipment, they make their way towards the entrance. They navigate through the wreck of their fight, hobbling around little heaps of soot that end up under the soles of their shoes one way or another, even when they’re cautious not to step on them. The wind that is waltzing through the wild opened doors has already scattered most of the debris, but it also makes it more difficult for Aziraphale and Crowley to avoid walking above their own mess. 

They eventually find themselves tucked away inside the small snack bar of the nearest 24/7 gas station. They are sitting at a table in one of the booths the place has to offer, facing each other. Crowley is tapping his fingers in front of an empty coffee cup while Aziraphale is warming his hands around his second go at the store’s cheap Earl Grey. He spent a good part of their time there stressing how abominable the taste of that thing was and ‘how dare they call it _Tea_ and sell it to the public,’ but came back for another one anyway. The repetitive twitches on his right eyelid are betraying his lack of sleep, and his head has been nodding dangerously lower and lower since they got here, so Crowley can’t blame him, really. 

They haven’t touched the subject that brought them here yet. For the past hour, they mostly just sat in silence, exchanging a glance here and there, but neither of them seems in a hurry to start the conversation. Or rather Crowley, at least, is in no hurry. Aziraphale spreads a fuzzy sort of feeling around him that is making him warmer than all the coffee—and alcohol—he’s been drinking, and it’s pleasant. It’s the early hours of the morning, and it won’t be much longer before dawn cracks at the horizon, but this is nice.

No matter how comfortable he is feeling, there’s a itching that he can’t quite shake away. He’s been investigating and spying on drudes since Lucifer gave him his current body. It never led to any clue, but most importantly it never led to meeting with people like Aziraphale. This is new...and possibly helpful. 

He’s about to finally question Aziraphale when the latter, as if on cue, is the first to raise the topic. 

“I didn’t expect to see you again…” he says, and there’s an honesty in the way his eyes meet Crowley’s.

“Me neither,” Crowley confesses. He didn’t expect to see him that soon, at least. He thinks for a second and almost mentions his intention to return the cardigan Aziraphale lent him, but decides to keep that information for himself. It’s not like he’s got the piece of clothing with him anyway. “Chasing drudes on this lovely night?” he prompts, asking as if Aziraphale had been out for a nice, little fishing trip.

If Aziraphale noticed the teasing in Crowley’s voice, he ignores it completely. “Ah, well, yes. You see, I was sent here by my Order-”

“Your Order being…?” Crowley interrupts.

“You don’t need to know that,” Aziraphale replies, sternly.

“Right. Sorry. Just curious.”

Aziraphale looks understanding and resumes speaking. “I was only supposed to assess the situation. There was a reported high activity tonight and I was sent to scout the place, but there were so many of them…I must say I didn’t expect anything of the sort. I wasn’t there to kill them originally, but I’ve always thought it best to take them down before they can do any kind of harm. So I…” Aziraphale trails off before shaking his head, as if chasing his previous thoughts away. “But I didn’t think I would find you here. That definitely surprised me.”

“Sparring my life once more, huh?” Crowley jokes lightly, but it doesn’t make Aziraphale smile. Instead, Aziraphale looks straight in Crowley’s eyes, and asks:

“What were you doing here? Do you control them?”

Crowley doesn’t answer right away. He turns his head and looks through the window by his side as he lets his chin fall on his open palm, his elbow resting on the table. He won’t say it, but the accusation stings. He can’t blame Aziraphale for misreading the situation. It’s not like he could know better. It’s not like Crowley ever explained anything either. But still. It stings.

“Aziraphale, you do realize I’m not a drude, right?” he says after a moment, as he returns his gaze onto the other man. “I mean... where do I look like one? You said it yourself, last time: ‘this one looks human’. Hell, I was attacked by those things!”

“I think… deep down I already knew that. Or I supposed that much,” Aziraphale admits. “It still doesn’t tell me who you are or what you are doing around them… If you’re not a drude, then what are you, exactly?”

“None of your business,” Crowley says, refusing to offer further explanation.

“Well I’m sorry I got it wrong, but what was I supposed to think? They all look different! And they have…tons of weird eyes! I thought you might be, I don’t know, an evolved version of one of them.”

“I don’t have ‘tons of eyes’, I have a normal amount of two,” Crowley mumbles, a little vexed.

“But they’re not humans.”

“Yeah, got that right.”

“I don’t know of any other supernatural entities besides drudes, it’s only natural I thought you were one of them.”

Crowley perks up his ears at those words. Not for Aziraphale’s excuses, but the reasoning itself is catching his interest.

“Doesn’t your Order worship a god? I mean... _a_ god. Not _God_. Ya know?” he asks.

“Well, yes, but… Wait. How do you know that?”

Crowley decides to ignore the question. “So you _know_ of other supernatural entities. Besides drudes.” 

“Gods don’t live among humans!” Aziraphale says with exasperation. He clearly doesn’t understand where Crowley is going with this.

“Out of curiosity, what’s the name of the god your lot worships?”

“... He is known as the 'Guide of lost souls'. And that would be pretty much all we know. We don’t call him by any kind of...proper name. But why the question?”

Crowley only shrugs, “Just curious.” He’s a little disappointed, to be honest. ‘The Guide of lost souls’? That doesn’t ring a bell… Lucifer never talked about this one, if he truly exists. It’s not helping that Aziraphale doesn’t have an actual name to give him.

“You are awfully curious.” Aziraphale eyes Crowley suspiciously. “And I’m sure you have your own reasons, but you must understand… I am curious as well.”

“You wouldn’t believe me.” Crowley tries to sweep Aziraphale’s interrogations away with a flap of his hand. 

“Do you, in all honesty, believe that with all the types of cases I have to deal with on a daily basis, I wouldn’t believe you?”

“Yes! I genuinely think that you won’t.” 

“Tell me anyway. What _are_ you?” Aziraphale says with a voice so determined, and eyes so imploring, Crowley caves. Pathetically fast. 

“Alright then.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m a god myself. Well… _ex_ -god,” he says, sincerely. As expected, Aziraphale stays speechless after getting the answer he wanted. Crowley refrains from rolling his eyes. “See! Told you you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Forgive me but...you can understand my skepticism.”

Indeed, Crowley can. He’s not even sure why he revealed such a thing to Aziraphale. He doesn’t have to believe him. No one does. Crowley certainly never spoke of his true nature to anyone before Aziraphale. He’s surprised with himself that he did, there. He doesn’t even regret it. Besides Lucifer, no one knows his past. In a way, it’s... lonely. It’s so lonely he wants Aziraphale to believe him. The idea that a mortal can remember him as what he used to be, it’s thrilling somehow. And he’s certain he can bring Aziraphale to trust him. 

What better way to prove than showing? He snaps his fingers and Aziraphale gasps in shock as he watches his empty teacup slowly refilling itself. No one is pouring water into it, there’s not even a pot nearby to do that. It just refills itself, from the bottom to the top, like a fountain sprung to life. It’s a small thing, but Crowley hopes it’s enough to shatter Aziraphale’s ‘skepticism’. 

“That’s…” Aziraphale starts, sounding a little breathless. Is he scared? He’s looking at the cup with such fascination, Crowley isn’t sure if he will hear the end of his sentence. Until Aziraphale speaks again, voice steadier now. “That’s... convincing, I guess? Not like I met a god before, so I don’t really know what to think, if I’m being honest…” he laughs nervously. “But what’s a god doing, bleeding out in the streets of London? Aren’t you supposed to be immortal?”

A well-thought question. And one Crowley didn’t expect. While he was alright enough with divulging parts of what and who he was with Aziraphale, it certainly didn’t mean telling the whole truth. All at once. Like that. He feels cornered.

“I was… But not in this body. I… I mean… Uh. It’s a long story.”

“I imagine that much…” Aziraphale says with an understanding voice. It’s a gentle, compassionate one. Like he’s feeling Crowley’s sudden distress. Crowley expected him to take this half-assed excuse as proof that he's just terrible liar, but it doesn’t seem like Aziraphale is distrusting him. “What kind of god are you, then? What are you doing here, among humans?” Aziraphale asks after a small pause.

“I…don’t feel like talking about that.” Suddenly Crowley doesn’t feel like talking about anything at all, if he’s being honest.

“Long story?”

“Long story.”

There’s an unspoken question left in the air between them. It’s in the way Aziraphale looks at him, and even though he doesn’t say anything, Crowley can still hear it, loud and clear: ‘ _a hurtful one?_ ’. He holds Aziraphale’s gaze in a way that wordlessly answers that, yes, it’s a hurtful one.

It seems also enough for Aziraphale to understand that Crowley won’t say more, and so he doesn’t press the matter any further. Even when Crowley can tell he is burning with many more questions to ask. 

For a moment, they’re silent again. Crowley has resumed looking through the window when the faintest sound of something like a chain jangling brings his attention back onto Aziraphale. 

The latter has reached under his shirt and is now holding something in his hand. Something that appears to be a pendant. Crowley can’t tell with certitude as it is buried inside Aziraphale’s fist, but what he can see is that it hangs off a chain the man had been wearing under his buttoned-up shirt. 

“What’s that?” He points with his chin at the object clasped in Aziraphale’s hand.

Upon asking, Crowley notices how Aziraphale’s grasp imperceptibly tightens around the thing. Crowley is almost certain Aziraphale is going to put it back where it stayed, shielded away under his clothes after that, but to his surprise, he does not do that. He opens his palm, revealing the artifact. 

Crowley’s heart misses a beat. For what feels like hours, but probably only truly was a matter of minutes, he stares, unable to tear his gaze away from what lies inside the opened hand. More specifically, it’s the symbols engraved into it that catch his full attention. 

The object is a small one, but not as small as you’d expect from a piece of jewelry or a pendant. It’s a wooden locket, about two to three inches long and two inches wide, and it is pretty thick. It looks remarkably old and is lovely decorated. Rich colors, as well as streaks of gold, adorn it. Crowley wishes he could have a better look so he could see all the artworks depicted on it. The figures and paintings are all small in size, but even from the distance, Crowley is able to discern how detailed and perfectly outlined they are. It’s a colossal work. They cover the entirety of the locket, except for the middle front where numerous triangles intertwine inside a circle. It is there, at the center of that circle, that two symbols have been carved. They are as tiny as the drawings, and consequently hard to decipher, but Crowley recognizes them right away. His eyes remain stuck onto them, and it’s only when he hears Aziraphale’s repeated calls that he realizes he stopped breathing entirely. 

How long has he spent staring? He is still so shaken, he can’t think of anything he could say to ease Aziraphale’s obvious concern. His mind is racing with too many thoughts at the moment. 

A hesitant voice eventually breaks his train of thoughts, and he looks up.

“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost...” Aziraphale says, obviously trying to coax him out of his musing. “Do you know what this is, by any chance?” 

Crowley looks at him for a moment, and sighs. “Actually, no. I don’t,” he says, honestly. Aziraphale only looks half-convinced. Crowley thinks he should elaborate a bit. “I have no idea what this is, but I know those symbols.”

“Are you saying...that you can read what is written on it?” Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “Oh, would it be terribly rude of me to ask what does it say, then? I spent so much time trying to find their meaning...” 

Crowley hesitates. Confusion and astonishment haven’t left him yet. But under it all, it’s fear he can feel crawling under his skin. Just thinking of the symbols, the _name_ he saw on Aziraphale’s locket, he’s getting dizzy. Crowley’s lower lip quivers slightly before he mutters an apology. This is not something he wants to share.

Aziraphale is disappointed. Of course he is. Crowley needs to ask, though, “When and where did you get this?”

“W-why do you want to know that?”

Aziraphale is looking at him like he’s fearing Crowley is about to steal the locket from him. His fingers clutch nervously around it, ready to hide the object again.

“I’m not accusing you of anything. And I’m not interested in taking it from you if that’s what you’re worried about,” Crowley explains.

“How am I supposed to trust you, exactly? I’m not an idiot, this clearly means something to you.”

“Okay, yes! Maybe. I’m just…” Crowley sighs again. This is requiring more effort than he thought it would. “Look, I just need to know. Come on, I showed you what I can do. If I wanted that thing, I’d have it already.”

“Well, certainly you can refill cups of tea with a snap of your fingers,” Aziraphale says like it’s the least impressive thing he’s seen all day. “Be that as it may, if you want to keep your secrets, I’m keeping mine.”

Crowley is baffled. “Whu- ow- wha-...are you seriously pulling that card on me?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Fine!” Crowley crosses his arms over his chest. It obviously doesn’t please him, but he’s becoming desperate. “Those signs on your locket, they look like a token or...a directive, I’m not sure. The first symbol is a simple word. It means ‘for’. The second symbol is a name.”

“A name you are familiar with, I presume.”

“... Yes. And before you ask, no, I won’t say that name.” Aziraphale doesn’t ask. He seems satisfied enough for now, and looks contemplatively at the relic inside his hand. “Have you ever tried to open it?” asks Crowley.

“Obviously. But it looks like it needs some kind of key to unlock it…” As he speaks, Aziraphale points at a portion where the plates of wood look slightly hollow at the bottom of the locket. Thin, embossed lines drawn in a complex looking design can be seen inside the gap. The whole thing suggests a part of the locket is missing that could fit inside that space. 

Crowley hums, lost in thoughts. “Assuming it needs one, no idea where that key could be?”

“Not a single one.” Aziraphale places the pendant back under his shirt and begins to button back the collar over his throat. “It...was given to me by the head of the Order I belong to,” he eventually unfolds. Crowley’s sincerity—whether Aziraphale actually believes him or not—is paying off and Aziraphale seems willing enough to share what he knows. It isn’t much, but it’s something at least. “He told me he was very proud of me,” Aziraphale continues, sounding satisfied with himself indeed, meaning acquiring that sort of esteem from the person he mentioned is probably quite the feat. “And he commended me for my contribution as a loyal member. It is then that he entrusted me with the locket. Apparently it’s of great value, so I am keeping it with me at all times. I… I don’t suppose this is the kind of information you expected, though...was it?”

“Unless you can give me a name, but I’m sure you can’t do that, it’s not...yeah, not exactly useful.”

“You are right, I can’t give you his name. I’m sorry abo-” 

“Whatever. Doesn’t matter.” Crowley shakes his hand in annoyance, which is giving away that it _does_ matter, but he doesn’t want to hear an apology. Not when he can feel his frustration building. “And that’s really all you know about it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“And when was it given to you?”

“A few years ago? I can’t recall exactly.” 

“Why did you show it to me? You said it’s of great value.” Crowley can’t help but ask. He finds it weird that Aziraphale would show such an important and precious thing to him.

Aziraphale’s gaze falls to the table. 

“I didn’t do it on purpose…” he confesses after a moment. “I just… I keep feeling the need to hold it in my hands lately? I do it unconsciously, most of the time. It happens especially at night, but I’m not around anyone usually during that time, so I don’t even think about doing it. I guessed I just picked the habit… I never did this in a public space before, though. I’m not sure how that happened...” 

Crowley stares at Aziraphale a while longer, but decides not to make a comment. Aziraphale seems thankful, or...relieved. Maybe both. 

Through the windows the sky is starting to turn a paler blue with hues of pink, reflecting on the clouds where the sun is rising. Aziraphale yawns. He looks beyond exhausted but Crowley selfishly doesn’t mention it. If he wants to leave, no one is stopping him from doing that. Crowley is not keeping him at least, but he also won’t point out that Aziraphale evidently needs to rest. Not when he’s feeling pleasantly warm again. They’re not even sitting close to each other, and although it’s faint, the warmth reaches Crowley in waves. It’s as nice as he remembers it, and he wouldn’t say it feels like being ‘drunk’ exactly, but the funny fizz inside his head that accompanies that gentle flow is comparable to his state when he gets tipsy. 

Crowley shifts in his seat a little, and as he does, he notices Aziraphale is shifting as well. For a brief moment, Crowley is certain he’s going to stand and leave, but Aziraphale reaches inside the inner pocket of his vest. He pulls out a small notebook and a pen, opens the notebook to a blank page, and then he starts scribbling something on it. 

“Right. Hm. So…” Crowley watches in confusion as Aziraphale tears the page neatly from the book before holding it towards him. “If you...ever learn more about the locket, or if you want to tell me more about it, here’s my phone number and my address. I actually live in the flat above my bookshop, but in case you forgot where that was...” Aziraphale explains, sounding confident, but he’s not looking at Crowley as he’s talking, and his hand is shaking slightly. It’s a subtle thing, but it’s definitely there.

Crowley stares in disbelief for a second or two, and then he laughs. Not a mocking laugh, not one of joy either. It’s more like a laugh of realization. It may have been five years only since he became human, but five years were enough to get in some other humans’...radar and to attract a specific type of attention on him. Of course, there are many other various reasons why humans exchange phone numbers, and this might be one of those different reasons, but the situation now strikes him as the perfect example. It’s amusing to a point he can’t stop himself. 

The laugh lasts long enough that Aziraphale blushes furiously and his lips pucker in an offended pout. “If you don’t want it…” Aziraphale says, already withdrawing his hand, but Crowley grabs it before he can bring the piece of paper away.

“No, no, I want it,” he says, hastily tucking the paper in the pocket of his jeans, where Aziraphale can’t retrieve it. “You just surprised me here. Didn’t think you’d be the type to do that sort of thing.”

Aziraphale frowns. “It’s for business purely. Don’t get the wrong idea,” he says with a nod of his chin.

“Yes. Unquestionably,” Crowley smiles. He finds Aziraphale is unbelievably easy to tease, and his reactions are all too enjoyable to stop the harmless fun he’s getting out of this now. 

“What are you implying exactly?”

“First of all, what ‘business’ are you talking about? And second of all...I can _hear_ bits of your thoughts.” It’s an obvious lie, but Aziraphale doesn’t need to know that. He looks genuinely terrified for a second. It’s fascinating to see how the lines over his eyebrows furrow in one direction, and then in another when he understands Crowley is playing with him.

“Clearly, you can’t.”

“Oh yes, I can. And they’re telling me you like me.” 

Crowley is entirely too amused by Azirapahale’s sputtering. “Don’t think for a second I believe this...grotesque lie. And don’t flatter yourself so much. I just want to-”

“To know more about me?”

“Well, yes. And about my locket, too. Of course I do.”

“Alright.” Crowley is still grinning, immensely pleased with himself. Even more so when he sees Aziraphale rolling his eyes because he spots a small smile under them. Small, but sincere. “I’ll call you, then?”

“If you have anything useful to share”—Aziraphale puts an emphasis on ‘useful’—“I would appreciate it,” he says as he stands. 

His hand grabs the handle of the shop’s doors and he turns his head towards Crowley. Aziraphale looks at him like he’s not sure how they should say goodbye before he opts for a quick but polite nod. Then he leaves, and Crowley is left alone again. 

Crowley exits the store a few minutes later and the chill of the early morning wind assaults him immediately. If he’s honest with himself, it’s not bothering him as much as the cold he felt the exact moment Aziraphale left the place. As he tries to warm himself up by running his hands up and down his arms, his mind wanders back to the locket Aziraphale showed him. He is seeing the name again. _His_ name, written in the language of gods. There’s no mistaking it.

[ _For Crowley_ ] 

“What the fuck does this mean…?” he wonders out loud in a shaky breath.

Of course, he doesn’t exclude the possibility Aziraphale might have hidden some things from him or even downright made his whole story up. But the little information shared with him makes him believe he was saying the truth. Aziraphale wants to know about the locket as much as Crowley does.

Crowley's first impulse is to ask Lucifer about the locket, but that would prompt Lucifer to ask him where he saw such a thing, and he isn't really keen on mentioning Aziraphale somewhere in the story. When he was questioned about his whereabouts the night Aziraphale found him, he already managed to get away with a lie. Well, it wasn’t so much a lie as it was keeping parts of the truth, but he feels torn now. He swore to be faithful to Lucifer. The god has given him so much, it doesn’t feel right keeping things from him. Lucifer trusts him, after all. And Crowley shivers at the thoughts of what would happen to him if the deity were ever to learn he was lied to. But no matter how wrong it felt to hide things from him, Crowley despises just as much the idea of bringing Aziraphale in Lucifer’s spotlight. The human saved his life, in a way.

Maybe Crowley worries for no reason. A gut feeling is telling him that he shouldn't talk about his meeting with Aziraphale, though. Lying to Lucifer is scary, but as long as Crowley is convincing and consistent enough in his story, he believes nothing bad will come out of it. And he _was_ convincing enough in his last report.

As if all this wasn’t enough, his reluctance to speak of Aziraphale is not the only reason he won’t ask Lucifer if he knows something about the locket. The mere question would already represent a personal investigation to satisfy his own curiosity, and it’s not what Lucifer asked him to investigate. The relic sure is intriguing, but to his knowledge, it isn’t linked to the new apparitions of drudes. He doesn’t doubt Lucifer wouldn’t be too happy to learn Crowley prefers to spend his time researching something other than the reason he was given a human body for. 

All in all, going to Lucifer for answers is clearly not an option. A little spying on the organization Aziraphale belongs to, however, seems in order...


	4. Mortemer Library

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two little things:  
> First, I changed the title. I... absolutely never do that usually. But I noticed I made a mistake in latin and it was bothering me way too much. So it's a small change, but a change nonetheless.  
> Secondly, if you're not familiar with the myth of Prometheus, I can only encourage you to take a look at it. It doesn't have any impact on the general understanding of the story whether you know about it or not, but the myth will be mentioned later again and if you're curious, then by any means, take a look at it! 
> 
> Thank you, as usual, to PicturedArtist for beta-reading ♥

It’s been two weeks since Crowley got Aziraphale’s contact information. The drude-hunter said he shared them in the event Crowley would learn something about his locket, but Crowley had tried calling even though there wasn’t anything new discovered. He did so because he hoped, with the aid of some persuasive words, he could bring Aziraphale to loosen his tongue regarding what he knew of his organization. It would have spared him spying directly on Aziraphale in order to get the information he lacked. But as it turned out, Crowley’s calls had all been left unanswered. 

He called three times exactly in the past two weeks. The first time, he thought maybe Aziraphale was busy, or that he was possibly taking an errand outside and would call back later. The second time, he started suspecting Aziraphale gave him a number for a phone no longer in use —The thought was backed largely by the fact that the gentle recorded voice informing the bookshop was currently closed and advising him to call again later, was sizzling on the other end of the line. 

The third time he dialed the number and was left hanging again, he decided to accept that Aziraphale probably simply changed his mind, and no longer wanted to speak with him. If that were the case, Crowley didn’t see the point to keep trying. He stopped calling altogether.

The fact that the number he had been given was one for a landline didn’t help. Crowley couldn’t just text Aziraphale, he had to leave voicemails. And he did. But he had no way to know if any of them got through since Aziraphale wouldn’t call him back. 

Now, Crowley has been thinking about paying the bookshop a visit on more than one occasion. He’s been meaning to return Aziraphale his cardigan, after all. Giving back the garment would work well enough as an excuse to explain his presence at the bookshop. And then he would be able to gather some information. Maybe also put on the table that terrible habit Aziraphale has of not answering his phone. What was the point in sharing his number if it was to ignore him afterward…?

On top of everything, the days hadn’t really been busy lately. If there had been more drudes around town, Crowley is sure he would have stumbled upon Aziraphale again. And sure, he spotted a few drudes here and there, in the usual alleyways and wastelands, but that was it. Exactly like in the past years, there was little of them. Certainly not enough to speak of ‘packs’ and definitely nothing like the number they were in the chapel. Parts of Crowley expected to see Aziraphale again anyway. But there had been no sign of the man in those two weeks. Of course, he doesn’t exclude the possibility that there were too little drudes around than what was worth the trouble, but that’s still a letdown. 

Why delaying his visit any longer then? It’s not like he’s got anything better to do at the moment. That’s what he tells himself as he grabs the piece of paper with the address of the bookshop with one hand and Aziraphale’s cardigan with another. 

Half an hour later, he is standing in front of the bookshop’s door, sweater hooked under his arm, and multiple questions are jostling in his mind. His brows remain knitted as he looks at the dull sign that greets him. It is politely —but firmly— indicating him that the bookshop is currently closed. It strikes Crowley as an odd thing, given he came here rather late in the morning, on a business day of the week. 

As odd as it is, that’s not what has got Crowley frowning so hard. No, what is sending a shiver up his spine is that through the door’s glass he can see a small calendar, nailed on the sidewall of the entrance. And the date he can see, bold and red on white paper, is bringing back to the day they saw each other last…two weeks ago. It possibly means nothing at all. Maybe Aziraphale simply forgot to change it, but Crowley doesn’t like the way his guts twist uncomfortably, a sick feeling settling with all of its weight at the bottom of his stomach. 

Because it’s still worth a try, Crowley knocks. It’s nothing too insistent, but the thumps of his knuckles on the wood are deliberate enough that if someone hears him, they’d know he saw the sign and they would understand that it is not stopping him from wanting an answer. If the store truly is closed and Aziraphale —or anyone else working there— is somewhere inside, Crowley might still get someone to remind him that they’re not open for business at the moment. 

When it becomes obvious that no one is going to come, he takes a few steps to the side and peeks through the nearest window. Old, brown curtains are drawn behind them, but Crowley spots a small gap he could use between the drapes. This is more than enough, all he needs is a quick look. 

Lifting his hands to his temples to keep the sunlight from reflecting on the glass, Crowley presses his forehead against the frame. The bookshop is dark inside, and he can’t distinguish any movements at all. He gets hardly any clues from this inspection. Shelves full of books line up in orderly rows, a few empty chairs are waiting patiently to be used, and Crowley notices more books on display in showcases, where the counters face the windows. 

All in all, the view is exactly the kind that one would expect from a bookstore. Except for a detail that gets his attention. There, at the foot of one of the shelves standing directly in his field of view, his eyes fall on a few books haphazardly scattered on the floor. It’s not much. There’s like two or three of them that he can see from his view angle, but it’s weird enough that the unpleasant feeling that was bothering him gets a few more pounds at the pit of his stomach. 

Crowley steps back and lifts his eyes to the building above the shop. From the street, he can see two more windows up there. The curtains are drawn as well, and after what he gathered from his observation, Crowley seriously doubts anyone is home. It’s not refraining him from shouting Aziraphale’s name at the windows a few times. What does he have to lose? 

The only reply he gets comes from another window, across the street. An angry neighbor, asking him with a colorful language to shut up.

Crowley looks up. “Hey, you! How long has that store been closed?” He asks now that he’s attracted someone’s attention. The guy only shrugs before slamming the window shut.

Crowley frowns. He could reason that Aziraphale will return later in the day, but his mind drifts back to the few books he saw on the floor inside the shop. He remembers that no one picked up the phone in the past weeks. The whole picture rises too many questions and Crowley craves answers. He is left with two options now: he could go back home, hope for the best and try his luck another day, or he could meet halfway with that uneasy feeling which keeps telling him that something is off here and that he needs to know what. 

After five unfruitful years researching new sources of drudes, meeting Aziraphale has led to more discoveries than ever before. Aziraphale was and _is_ his only serious lead to getting answers. Not only that, but Crowley was also hoping he would get a chance to know more about that mysterious Order of his, and the locket the man showed him. It would be excessively stupid of him to leave now. And the more he thinks about it, the more he finds it hard to believe that his calls were left unanswered because the bookseller didn’t want to see him again. They were getting along well enough, weren’t they? 

Crowley approaches the main entrance once more. As he examines the handle closely, he tells himself he could come up with an excuse If Aziraphale or another employee found him trespassing. The bookshop doesn’t show any sign of being forced open and Crowley is not surprised when he tries to push the doors open and find them locked. It was still worth the try. Not that a locked door ever stopped him before, but it got him the confirmation that no one broke through that entryway before him. 

Two of his fingers meet each other in a sharp slap and the doors gently pry open with a click. Crowley announces his presence by calling for someone again as he crosses the threshold, but is once more only met with silence. It’s only comforting in a way that he can check the place in peace. 

After a good time spent inspecting every corner the area has to offer, searching through the bookshop turned out to be, unfortunately, a waste of time. He found a back room and recognized it as the place where Aziraphale had brought him when he got badly injured, but even there, the place didn’t have many new clues to offer...if not at all. 

He does find a few more books on the floor, close to the ones he spotted earlier from the windows. And that is about it. Crowley picks one up, flips through the pages quickly before turning it around in his hand to take a look at the cover. 

_Prometheus Bound_ \- **Aeschylus**

Crowley snorts in disbelief. Of all books…he had to go and pick that _one_. It’s like the gods are mocking him. Or fate has got a twisted sense of humor. Because of course, Crowley knows his classics. And this is one he’s very familiar with.

While he was looking around the bookshop, Crowley noticed Aziraphale seemed to specialize in old, rare books and antiques. The shopkeeper has got quite an impressive collection. Crowley doesn’t know much about this type of business, but he’s pretty sure he saw rare and early editions on the shelves, and that those are highly valuable items. It’s a wonder, all things considered, that it requires so little effort to break in a shop full of expensive stocks, like the ones he found here...

His index caresses the back cover of the book he’s still holding. Crowley loves books. They are human work —as gods don’t feel the need to write down their thoughts or rules on paper— and they hold a world of wonders. Sadly, he never really got the opportunity to read many of them. Try reading a book when you’re a snake. It’s not an impossible feat, and Lucifer had a little collection of his own, but it’s not the easiest task. He finds it a lot more enjoyable now that he’s got hands again. Sure, he’s got quite some catch-up to do, especially when it comes to recent works, but he knows more than enough classic literature. 

In the last years, he tried some novels and poems, some plays…it’s a nice change from Lucifer’s alchemy authors, and he finds he really loves tales and stories. Unfortunately for him, he’s not here to indulge in that hobby right now.

If searching the store didn’t get him answers, Crowley hopes that taking a look at the flat above will be more fruitful. There’s obviously no one home to stop him anyway. 

Aziraphale’s flat is a lot simpler than what he imagined from the man. It’s got the basics: kitchen, bathroom, bedroom...all furnished with the minimum expected from a housing. Crowley finds more books in the bedroom. None are given a shelf to rest on. In fact, there’s so many of them on the bed that you’d think the sheets are made of paper and knowledge. It’s not disorganization exactly. That’s not how Crowley would describe it. On the contrary, it almost looks as if there’s a purpose behind the overall look of it. Like every object belongs to the place where it can be found. It actually looks rather cozy. Cramped, but cozy. 

Bedrooms, Crowley noticed, are like people’s sanctuary. It is where humans want to feel safe and at peace... Crowley feels like he’s invading Aziraphale’s own personal haven just by stepping inside the room. He leaves it almost as soon as he entered. Aziraphale is nowhere to be found, and save for the bedroom, the apartment doesn’t look like a place where he lives much. It’s another dead-end. 

It’s a waste of time to stay around any longer and Crowley abandons the flat to take the stairs back to the store. On his way out, he stops in front of the rotary phone and the answering machine sitting at the desk. He presses the button to play the cassette and its recorded messages. Three of them seem to be from book dealers, if the nature of the messages is any indication. It’s the same voice on two of them, and a different one on the third call. The three remaining messages on the tape are his own, meaning Aziraphale didn’t hear them yet. Meaning also that what he was already highly suspecting might really be true…Aziraphale never returned to the bookshop. Or if he did, it was short-timed…

Crowley flips quickly through the address book left next to the phone. From what he gathered, Aziraphale’s last name is “Fell”, but no other names written down on the notebook is sharing it. Hard to tell who is family and who isn’t. He’s not sure if calling one of these numbers would help, but Crowley pockets the address book in the back of his pants anyway. Just in case.

He can’t hide his disappointment when he exits the shop. He’s got no way to know where Aziraphale is now, or if he’s even still alive… The only people who could possibly help him now are the ones who belong to the same Order as his. The problem with a secret Order is exactly that: it’s secret. Crowley knows of its existence, sure, but he knows nothing else.

Where is it located? Who else belongs to it? What’s the name of their leader? He is completely clueless. 

After his conversation with Aziraphale, he tried searching ‘the guide of lost souls’ online to see if he could find anything about it, but most of the results he got were articles about a video game, ads trying to sell him Tibetan bracelets, a Reddit page with a thread about mysterious cases of missing people, and a forum for poem amateurs. Nothing helpful. 

Crowley is an optimist. No amount of optimism is going to stop him from thinking that Lady luck is shying away from him these days —and he refuses to entertain the idea that she never was on his side, to begin with. 

It is with that mindset that Crowley breaks in Mortemer Library when night falls. It’s funny, though, how events always seem to take a fortunate turn when you finally resigned yourself, with absolute certitude, that they won’t.

Crowley smelled the presence of drudes in the area. It was a surprise to find a library when he got there. Usually the ghouls only appear in old, deserted buildings, or streets. They find their way through open doors, rusted locks and gaping holes inside crumbling walls. It’s the first time Crowley senses their presence inside a perfectly standing edifice. And while it looks ancient, it is still clearly used by humans.

It’s the first hint that should have made him expect something different from his regular, nocturnal expeditions. Yet, Crowley turns a blind eye to it. 

The silence inside the library is deafening. He doesn’t like it one bit. Especially not when he expected to hear the guttural noises drudes typically make. Instead, his ears only catch that maddening silence, sharpening all of his senses. He’s thankful that the moonlight shines reassuringly through the tall tinted glass windows. That soft light and the quietness of the place would have reminded Crowley of the peacefulness found in places of worship —or like in this case, in libraries— if it wasn’t for how cold and hollow the absence of sound feels here. 

He takes a look around. 

More shelves...more old-looking books...and more rows of brown leather-bound covers and yellowed, faded pages... After the bookstore, a library. And once again, he’s not here for his own entertainment. The plaque in the lobby room informs Crowley that it was first open to the public in 1852. And the building itself is gorgeous inside. It’s got a high ceiling, the windows are beautiful stained glass. Besides the furniture, the whole place is made of pale stone, worn out over time with the countless visitors it brought along. It looks like a cathedral redesigned for a different purpose. 

Each of Crowley’s steps echoes eerily as he walks between the shelves, looking for the drudes he’s certain are hiding somewhere inside. Crowley finds he prefers libraries when they’re full of people. They’re still quiet, but it’s a different type of quiet. It’s a comfortable one. Nothing like the menacing kind he’s experiencing now. 

As usual, the first thing he does when he investigates closed spaces is to leave an exit for himself if needed, and then find a spot where he can hide and observe in relative peace. And sure enough, he finds more than enough places that could do, but he doesn’t see the point in using any of them as he can’t find a single drude around. It’s more than puzzling, it’s downright abnormal because he _can_ feel them. And the more he advances in the library, the stronger the smell, the harder his senses are tingling. When he reaches the center of the room, they are telling him there should be thousands of them crawling all around the place. There are drudes here, there’s no doubt about that. And yet, he’s completely alone. Alone among columns of books.

Frowning harder with every step, Crowley is about to browse another alley when he _finally_ hears something. There’s some shuffling nearby. He’s sure those are footfalls. Someone is walking with utmost care just behind the row where Crowley is standing, and that someone is coming his way. Crowley can hear the steps pausing, like the person or the thing behind it heard him as well, and they are now hesitant to show themselves… It is what Crowley hoped for. There’s no hesitation from him when he takes his chance. 

He grabs a pocket knife from his vest and rounds the corner. There’s a shocked gasp in front of him when, weapon in hand, Crowley lurches to lift his knife right under the throat of a rather horrified… Aziraphale…?

Crowley withdraws his knife right away. Aziraphale has both his hands in front of him in a gesture of surrender. He eyes the blade warily as Crowley removes it away from his throat, and only resumes breathing once it got reasonably far away from him. 

“You’re alive,” is the only thing Crowley can think to say, dumbfounded. He really had convinced himself to stop expecting he would see the bookseller during this kind of explorations again. 

“You…dear Lord, you surprised me,” Aziraphale says, holding a hand to his chest. Crowley really must have terrified the hell out of him.

“So did you!” he replies in defense.

“I guess I rather did…” 

Aziraphale starts doing the thing Crowley noticed he does with his hands when he looks nervous or anxious. To help him feel more at ease, he puts the knife back in the lining of his vest and shoves a hand through his hair. He can’t help it, a surge of relief washes over him seeing Aziraphale again…and alive.

“Listen,” he starts, but a thunderous roar somewhere behind them surprises them both. 

They don’t get a chance to speak as a giant pulsing mass, somewhat looking like a centipede, surges from behind their backs. It’s got a mouth full of sharp teeth and two large mandibles. Crowley realizes in horror that that thing might very well be the drude he was looking for. 

“Well… Isn’t this nightmare fueled,” Crowley just barely has the time to whisper before he has to duck to avoid the beast now lurching at them. 

Aziraphale had the same reflex and is already putting some distance between them. Since the sudden assault separated them, Crowley is relieved to see Aziraphale had the same idea as him. In a silent agreement, they both reach opposite sides of the room while the creature is destroying the row of shelves in front of which they were standing barely seconds ago. 

Crowley curses under his breath. His pocket knife and his own abilities won’t do much against a creature of this size. From the corner of his eye, he can see Aziraphale looks just as powerless. He is scanning his surroundings, though, and Crowley takes comfort in the idea that Aziraphale is either coming up with a plan or trying to find an escape route. That could help with Crowley’s own situation since there’s no path for him to run. The centipede had him cornered at the back of the library, and his only way out is to face the beast. He can, however, use the counter behind him as cover. It’s better than nothing and it will buy him some time to find a way out of this impasse. 

Crowley takes shelter behind the desk and tries to think. He has never seen a drude like this before. The usual ones are small and relatively harmless if handled one at a time. This…is an entirely different matter. It’s an unbridled bug, and it’s horrifyingly huge. 

Crowley chances a quick glance from behind the counter and notices that the centipede is no longer bothering with him. Instead, it’s targeting Aziraphale, who has apparently thought of something. Hopefully a plan. He is holding his sword again in one hand —though Crowley can’t see flames this time— and in the other, he’s clutching the same leather bag he was carrying in the chapel. 

Without its burning fire, the weapon does little to keep the creature at bay. Regardless, it does deter it from approaching too much. Especially after Aziraphale managed to hit one of his mandibles. It causes the creature to hiss a horrible high-pitched scream that makes Crowley wince. 

The entirety of the creature is oozing a viscid, dark substance. Crowley wonders if this is the reason why Aziraphale is reluctant to set it aflame like the drudes in the chapel.

The insect drude is more daring with every new attempt and it forces Aziraphale to back off until his back hits a wall. Bound to that corner, his range of options is restricted and he won’t be able to flee. The next attack might be fatal. Crowley is fully aware of that when the centipede rises to its full height with the intention to strike down. 

Right. Leaving his retreat it is, then. 

As much as he hates doing that, he doesn’t have many choices other than to force the lower half of his body to reconcile with his snake form in order to reach Aziraphale on time. The fabric of his pants melts inside his skin as his legs reunite in a single limb. Visible through his clothes, black, shimmering scales sprout up to his chest, neck, and even up to the corner of his eyes as a side effect of turning an entire half of his body in that most despised form. 

While he is at it, and if he’s going to have to fight that gigantic drude, he might as well grow his trusty fangs inside his mouth as well. His shades fell to the floor when he jumped to avoid the attack earlier and he didn’t get a chance to retrieve them. Without that layer masking his golden eyes from the world and now that he bears a tail, Crowley feels utterly exposed. He’s never looked so much like a snake since he made his pact with Lucifer. But thanks to this transformation, he’s able to slide up to Aziraphale in no time at all to shield him from further harm. 

Despite a slightly larger and taller size, Crowley is still small compared to the drude in front of him, but the scales of his tail are thick enough that when the creature tries to bite him, it leaves him with scratches instead of deep wounds. 

Aziraphale is silent behind him, but Crowley can feel the acute stare on his back. He doesn’t have to turn around to know the man is gaping. He’s sure Aziraphale has a question or two, but they don’t exactly have time for a chat right now. Those teeth were sharp. They only scraped his skin, but one more bite and it might become more serious. And quite frankly, Crowley is getting tired of having his flesh torn out every single time he runs into Aziraphale. 

Speaking of the human, he’s gone unresponsive since Crowley came to his side. Time to wake him up. 

“A little help here?” Crowley asks, trying not to sound too urging. 

“R-Right,” Aziraphale stammers behind him. 

Crowley turns his head to look at him and finds that in the ruckus, Aziraphale tumbled on his back. He scrambles back to his feet, grip tightening around his sword.

Crowley raises an eyebrow, eyes falling on the blade. “Aren’t you going to use that?”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s too risky, I don’t want any of these books to catch on fire,” Aziraphale explains. 

“You can’t be serious…” mumbles Crowley, perplex.

Aziraphale sounds defeating. Crowley makes a face. It can’t be that setting drudes on fire was the drude-hunter’s only method of killing them, was it? They need to get rid of that beast and they need to do it quickly. While Crowley understands the reluctance... what are a few books in comparison to their lives? The choice to make here is obvious to him. He should teach Aziraphale a thing or two about priorities... 

“Wait! I think I have an idea,” Aziraphale suddenly says with renewed faith, and while Crowley is struggling with the creature, he opens his leather bag.

“Ah. The bag of wonders.” Crowley can’t help but note.

Aziraphale is searching for something inside it and quickly pulls out a jar. Many worms are wriggling inside it. 

Crowley eyes the jar with disbelief—and a little apprehension. “The heck are you doing with that thing?” 

“Hush. You’ll see.”

Aziraphale releases the worms at the bottom of the nearest wooden shelf before skirting Crowley and the creature to get to the second row of shelves, on their left. 

“Would you _please_ hurry!” Crowley has had his hands clenched around both mandibles all this time and his strength is starting to abandon him. Using his power to turn parts of his body in a snake was already draining, he knows he can’t keep on like this for much longer. A few more minutes of this and he knows for sure he is that drude’s next lunch. 

Aziraphale has finished freeing all the bugs and they’re quick to feast on the old furniture’s wood. The shelves crumble to the ground like houses of cards. Books and chunks of bookcases alike cascade upon the creature with a loud crash. Crowley barely has the time to release his grip on the beast and move back before he gets buried under that chaos as well. 

He turns to Aziraphale. “This won’t stop it.” He flails his arms around in the general direction of the clutter. 

Aziraphale scowls. “I know that,” he says. “But it will buy us time. Those worms feed on wood and they have quite the appetite. They’re fast little things so I suggest we leave before we get stuck in here.” 

Crowley nods, thankful for the assistance. He closes his eyes to focus. The process of getting his legs back is no less exhausting than to lose them. It’s supposed to take a few seconds only, but Crowley needs to concentrate in order to do that and there’s already movement again from the debris. It distracts him and stops him from returning to a fully human body.

From under the rubble, it’s revealed that the giant insect was not, in fact, a drude. Rather, it turned out to be a multitude of them, amassed into one huge being. Some of them are trying to surface but all in all, they now look like a sooty mash of slimy bodies and writhing worms. 

The drudes still move as one entity, hundreds of bony arms moving together to close their fingers around Aziraphale’s legs, yanking the man down with them. Aziraphale yelps in surprise. It all happens so quickly, he doesn’t get a chance to free himself. And by the time Crowley understands what is happening, Aziraphale is already being swallowed inside a shapeless, tarred blob made of bodies merging back together. Crowley is quick to react, though. He grabs Aziraphale’s hand before it gets out of reach. 

Crowley grits his teeth. He draws in all the strength he’s got left to pull, trying to take Aziraphale out of the dark mass, but the weight above the man and the multitude of puny limbs pulling in the opposite direction are powerful. Crowley is on the verge of exhaustion. The muscles inside his tail are stronger than human legs but the drudes are winning over his fatigue, and soon, Aziraphale disappears entirely. Crowley, who didn’t let go of his hand, can feel his own arm being pulled in as well. 

He screams Aziraphale’s name but the only thing answering back is a sinister gurgle somewhere under the tar. For a moment, he thinks this is the end. That this time, they’re both going to die there. The last of his strength has left him and he can only watch, helpless, as he is being dragged, slowly but surely, inside the gooey mob.

In spite of everything, he won't give up until the very end and he keeps fighting when, against all odds, the floor gives way under them with a deep rumble. The cold stone of the floor is collapsing under the weight of what’s left of the shelves and the myriad of drudes heaped in one place. 

Was the library built upon some kind of cave? Crowley doesn’t want to find out like this. That fortuitous turnaround is giving him a sudden burst of energy. With a last ounce of strength, he grabs with his free hand the nearest edge of the floor that didn’t crumble down. 

His arm is violently tugged down and the weight of Aziraphale’s body is unbearable when the slimy lump let go of the man, whose hand Crowley is still holding. He doesn’t know, really, how he manages to hoist both himself and Aziraphale on solid ground while the drudes all disappear into some deep abyss, but he does. Once Aziraphale is at ground level, he finishes climbing on his own and Crowley is immensely thankful for that because he has truly used up to the last remnants of his energy. 

He lets himself slump to the floor and waits for a hint that the creatures met their demise, but the thump he’s expecting never comes. He shivers at the idea that he might have fallen into this bottomless pit as well. 

Now that he feels remotely safe, he casts a quick glance at Aziraphale. The man looks fine, he’s just...dirty. There’s still some of that viscous substance smeared all over his face and body. 

Reassured that they’re both in one piece, Crowley takes a few minutes to rest and concentrate in order to switch back into his full human form. He so rarely uses his power to change parts of his body into a snake that he forgot how it seeps his stamina the same way he would have switched a dam open. He feels like sleeping for a century after that. At least a century. And maybe sleeping is what he’s going to do. Rest his eyes, if only for a little while. Just to recuperate. Just…for a little while…


	5. The Order of Saint Beryl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to [PicturedArtist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PicturedArtist/pseuds/PicturedArtist) and [Fuuma_san](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuuma_san) for beta reading this chapter! <3
> 
> I also want to thank those of you who left a comment so far, they really help with motivation! Thanks for sticking around!

Crowley wakes with a jolt. Flashes of what happened just before he fell asleep unfurl in his mind and rouse something primal inside him. For a second, he forgets he is no longer a snake. For a second, he is prey all over again and his eyes dart about, looking for an escape or, at the very least, a place to hide. 

The panic subsides when he starts taking in his surroundings. He is lying on a couch in a place he doesn’t recognize. The unfamiliar ceiling above him is nothing like the high dome of the library—the last thing he saw before closing his eyes. He can tell he’s not in the bookshop either. And it’s definitely not Lucifer’s lair, where Crowley himself resides. The air around him, for starters, is nothing alike. 

He sits up and looks down. Apparently, he had the presence of mind to conjure back clothes on himself when he retrieved his legs. He still can’t believe he exhausted himself to a point he actually _slept_. He buries his face in his hands, feeling like a wretch. How weak has he become? He knew perfectly well, when Lucifer gave him some of his powers back, that he would be nothing like the god he used to be, but this is laughable. This is a joke. _He_ is a joke. 

Dwelling in such thoughts won’t help him find out where he’d been brought though, so he shuts down the voice in his mind that is taunting him and looks around him. The room he was left in looks like a study of some sort. The place is rather dim. It’s night outside but that’s not the only reason why it’s so dark. Most of the furniture is made out of warm, ebony material and the tapestry is a tacky one, flanked out with tawny, eye-stinging patterns sticking out on dark brown. There’s an outdated computer amidst loose leaf papers on a desk in front of him. From a human perspective, he would say this is what they call...‘old-fashioned’. There is a door on the wall to his right and he can hear a faint noise beyond it. It’s distant, but it’s definitely two voices having a conversation, in the room next door, he guesses. He doesn’t recognize the voices, but it piques his curiosity. 

He stands up. As he approaches the door, he remembers bitterly that he lost his glasses in the library, and he snaps his fingers together to create a new pair for himself, reluctant as he is to come face-to-face with a human. They’re unpredictable creatures who tend to jump to all kinds of conclusions about him, but he’s dying to know where the hell he ended up and what happened to Aziraphale.

Beyond the room, Crowley finds a long corridor, brightly lit in comparison to the place where he awoke. The building looks a century old, give or take. Some parts of it seem to have been restored while some others were left in…more questionable conditions. Crowley spots cracks in the wall above the baseboard. And the wood flooring, while well polished, has seen so many shoes that the original design on the patterns has partly faded away. The smell of wax is strong and the floor creaks under his boots. 

There are many other doors in the hallway. It stretches for a good dozen yards in front of him, with a new door every ten feet or so on both sides. He can hear voices coming from the one across from him. Crowley is about to press his ear against the wood to listen to the conversation, but it opens the moment he gets right up to it. A little taken aback, he is met with a woman with black hair, cut short above her shoulders. The makeup she’s wearing and her pencil-skirt underline her mature traits and confident demeanor. She looks just as surprised as he is. 

“Uh. Can I help you?” she blinks in confusion, but then something seems to click behind her eyes and she clasps her hands together with enthusiasm. “Oh wait a minute…you’re the newest member, aren’t you? The one Aziraphale recommended? The guy found at the library? My oh my”—she turns towards someone behind her and chews on her bottom lip with her teeth—“Nothing close to what I imagined. What do you think, Anathema?” she asks in a friendly manner, leading Crowley to assume ‘Anathema’ is a person she’s well acquainted with.

As the woman moves to look at her friend or colleague, she finally clears Crowley’s view of the room, revealing a younger woman in a long pleated dress, standing close to a table. Anathema gives a sigh in reply and crosses her arms over her chest as she turns her attention on Crowley, who still stands in the doorway. “To be honest with you, I didn’t expect to see you up and walking anytime soon. Are you hurting anywhere? We were asked to wait before calling the Emergency Department.”

To say that Crowley is at a loss is an understatement. ‘Newest member’, ‘the one Aziraphale recommended’... What are they talking about? He can only conclude these women are acquaintances of Aziraphale and Crowley wonders for long, unnerving minutes if it means Aziraphale exposed everything he knows about him. Did Crowley make a mistake when he thought he could trust Aziraphale? And how much do these women know about him exactly? How many people _know_ of his existence? Anathema is staring at him intently and he is increasingly becoming annoyed for being scrutinized like this. He remembers she asked him about injuries, and he gives himself a once-over, checking for any sign of blood or discomfort. He must admit he didn’t even consider he could be hurt somewhere before the question was thrown his way. 

“Err...I don’t think...so?” he eventually offers before returning to the more disconcerting topic at hand. “Mind explaining a thing or two—” 

“Good,” she interjects before he can finish. “However, I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait here a little longer.”

"... Why? Is no one going to tell me what I'm doing here? Who even are you?!"

"There's nothing we can tell you."

The woman that was still in the entryway backtracks further inside the room, towards Anathema. She grabs a tin of biscuits left atop the table next to which Anathema is standing and pulls up a chair. “We have biscuits! And tea. Surely that would help to pass the time? If that’s your thing, that goes without saying. But I must say, I can’t wait to hear all about you. Oh! Right. Please, take a seat.”

Crowley doesn’t sit. The absurdity of the situation reminds him of his first meeting with Aziraphale. He’s sure of it now, these women belong to the same secret Order. The question is... _what_ did Aziraphale tell them about him exactly? He doesn’t like this one bit. He needs to have a word with Aziraphale. 

“Where is Aziraphale?” he demands, losing patience already.

“If I’m not mistaken, he would be-” the woman who offered a chair looks more than happy to enlighten him but Anathema interjects before she can explain a thing.

“Aziraphale is busy at the moment. But you can wait for him here,” she says, flatly.

“Busy where?” Crowley asks again.

“Oh no, no, no! No, we can’t tell you that. It’s a private meeting. Very private. No one is allowed in Gabriel’s office at the moment, I’m afraid.” 

“Mary…!” Eyes wide, Anathema shakes her head with exasperation, hands on her hips, taking on the attitude of a scolding mother. But it’s too late to swallow back the words that have slipped _Mary_ ’s mouth now. Crowley’s heard more than enough.

“Where is that office?” he asks, pressing.

“You can’t-”

Crowley growls. “ _Where is it_?” he asks again, baring his fangs. The two girls are testing his patience.

There’s yet another sigh from Anathema. This time it’s one of capitulation. She can tell that Crowley is going to try every single door in the building whether he gets his answer or not, and she would be right about that. She gives in. 

“Last door on the left, down the corridor.”

Crowley storms out, heading in the direction he was given. He won’t hide it, he’s pissed. No one to answer his questions, they ask him to wait—sounds more like he can’t leave if he wants to if you ask him—and he’s got next to no clues about this place, or to understand why he was carried here. He’s had enough of all these secrets around him, and he is more than ready to get answers. Who is he supposed to trust if everyone leaves him in the dark constantly? And what did Aziraphale go and say about him? Did he reveal Crowley’s true nature to the members of his Order, and tell them it could be useful to have a god among their ranks? Anathema and Mary spoke of Crowley as ‘the new member’ like he said ‘yes’ to a question he was never asked, like he has given his consent to become part of an Order he knows nothing about, and Crowley isn’t exactly pleased to learn the news in such a way. He is even less pleased to learn it from people he has never even met before. 

He reaches that ‘private office’ in a matter of seconds and this time, he doesn’t try to eavesdrop. Without preamble, he opens the door, maybe a little too rough because he makes quite the show as he barges in and five pairs of eyes turn at once in his direction. 

Well. Crowley didn’t expect such a reception committee. He ignores the curious stares and walks straight to the man he assumes is in charge of the place. An assumption Crowley makes as this man is the only person sitting behind the desk, while two police officers and a gentleman in formal attire are standing in front of him. 

As Crowley gets closer to the little assembly, he spots Aziraphale, standing behind the desk, on the right. He steals a glance at him and Aziraphale’s eyes light up at the sight of him. For a fleeting moment, they reflect his relief, but Aziraphale is quick to avert his gaze. After that entry on stage, he almost looks embarrassed on Crowley’s behalf. Fine with Crowley, because he certainly wasn’t going to apologize. 

The thing is, Crowley got there with the intention to speak directly with Aziraphale, but if he guessed right and the women he spoke with belong to Aziraphale’s Order, then he hopes the man who is sitting at the desk is a representative of whatever authority is making decisions here. If so, he needs a word with that guy as well.

Crowley slams his hands on the desk and opens his mouth to ask where in the world he’s been brought to when one of the two police officers speaks before he gets the chance to utter a word: 

“And who’s that one, Gabriel?” they ask in annoyance. Crowley detects a strange scent coming from them. It’s somewhat familiar, but he can’t pinpoint what it reminds him of.

“One of our newest members,” Gabriel answers from his seat, unperturbed, before turning his head towards Aziraphale. “He was accompanying Aziraphale here, and was in the library as well when the incident happened.”

Crowley can only look in utter disbelief, the ground cut from under his feet. What is the meaning of this? There is obviously an ulterior motive behind such blatant lies.

The police officer tucks their chin between their fingers, eyes piercing as they study Crowley. “So that’s him,” they finally say. “I’m sure you don’t need me telling you, but we’ll have to interrogate him as well.”

“Of course,” says Gabriel. 

“We’ll take over from here. The site will remain closed during the investigation. Rest assured, though. We’re going to keep a close eye on you.”

“Do what you have to.” Gabriel looks almost happy throughout the exchange. It rubs Crowley the wrong way. The man sounds pleasant and cordial enough, but the smile on his face looks like it’s been plastered there. Crowley almost wonders if he wanted to frown, would he even be capable of it. It’s— jarring, if anything.

The two police officers seem satisfied with the answers given. They move past Crowley to exit the room when the gentleman in the suit stops them, pointing at the leader and protesting loudly. 

“This is ridiculous! Where do you think these _pagans_ get their fundings for their little Order of theirs? The government itself! And for what? Destruction of cultural heritage!?” He’s directing his words at Gabriel now, and he leans so close to his ear Crowley is genuinely surprised he doesn’t flinch. Far from it, Gabriel remains as perfectly composed as he was throughout the whole tantrum. “This organization you call a ‘sacred Order’ is a sham! As a member of the parliament, I can not in good conscience put in a good word about you. Not when you demolish historical buildings. Consider yourself lucky it happened during closing hours.”

Well, well. Looks like someone snapped here. The politician is so red in the cheeks, Crowley wonders if he’s going to see smoke coming out of his ears.

“It is as you said, Mister Dowling. It happened during closing hours, and no one was hurt,” the police officer who talked earlier puts him back in his place. 

Gabriel further comments, “If I may add, I think this incident won’t be considered a loss. I’m certain archaeologists and historians will be pleased indeed to hear about the vault discovered under Mortemer Library! It will add to the history of this country, and its cultural heritage.”

Despite the clear annoyance painted all over his face, Mister Dowling doesn’t find anything to retort. However, he’s still rather miffed by the conversation so he straightens himself to huff with disdain. 

From the doorway, the police officer speaks to them again, “In the meantime, stay in your lane, Gabriel.” 

“You don’t need to remind me.”

The police officer hums a faint “hm-hm” to acknowledge the answer before they nod to Mister Dowling, as if indicating to him that _this time_ , they’re leaving. Mister Dowling seems to catch on only after the two officers close the door behind them because he hurries after them, grumbling loudly not to ‘leave him alone with these freaks’, or something along those lines.

After Mister Dowling left, the only people in the room are Aziraphale, Gabriel, and Crowley himself, and Gabriel joins his hands together in a loud, vigorous clap—a little too enthusiastic for Crowley’s liking. 

“Well then,” he says with a bright grin. “You heard Inspector Beelz? We can’t meddle with their work.” 

Crowley still doesn’t like the grin on his face as he speaks those words. What’s so great about that? He thought _these_ people, out of everyone else, would be the ones on the front line. They know there are drudes down there. They know that likely means deaths. And they’re happy when they’re told not to interfere? Crowley doesn’t follow. 

Gabriel gestures to a vacant chair in front of his desk. Crowley glances at Aziraphale, who has apparently decided not to meet his eyes and is stubbornly doing an amazing job at that. Crowley tries to dismiss how much it bothers him. He looks at the chair as he is once again invited to sit down. And once again, he doesn't. Instead, he crosses his arms over his chest. 

“Gabriel, is it? What was that about?” He can’t hide his annoyance. 

“Aziraphale told me you were on our side.” Again, Gabriel smiles pleasantly. It unnerves Crowley even more now that it’s directed towards him. 

“And what side would that be?”

Gabriel tilts his head to the side. “I don’t know how much Aziraphale told you about us, but as you’re probably already aware, it’s not the first time our Order has had to deal with drudes. It is, however, the first time we’ve noticed such a peak in their activity. Which led us to believe someone, somewhere, is trying their hand at witchcraft. I say ‘trying’ but whoever they are, they know what they’re doing.”

“So you guys are trying to stop them, right?” 

“That’s what we want to do, yes.” Gabriel stands, looking quite pumped, and circles Crowley. Then, without warning, he smacks a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. A deep vibration rattles his bones. Something akin to an electric shock travels down his spine before he can hear Gabriel speaking again. “Aziraphale said you lent him a hand.”

Crowley blinks, still trying to understand what just happened. “I did. And?”

“So we’re offering you the chance to join the Order.”

Crowley clicks his tongue. “Yeah, about that. You keep telling everyone I’m part of your Order. Ever heard of waiting for a reply?”

“Of course, you don’t have to.”

“Why would I?” Crowley is starting to get suspicious. “I stumble upon one of yours a few times, we help each other out—better than dying horribly if you ask me. Now what? Take a seat, have some biscuits, have some _tea_ ,” he mocks, feeling irritated, despite himself, with Gabriel and the way he _keeps_ grinning at him. “How does that make me one of yours? Do you even _know_ who I am?” Crowley is keenly aware he stressed the words in his last question. So much for being subtle, but as much as he wants to understand what Gabriel expects from him, he also hopes Gabriel can tell him how much he knows about him.

“That’s a condition, evidently,” Gabriel says as he leans on the desk and lets his chin drop on the back of his hands. “If you accept, we will ask you to answer our questions about you.” 

Crowley certainly didn’t expect that. Gabriel is not even remotely answering any of his interrogations. “See, this is where you’re losing me. I have no intention of joining forces with you. What do I have to gain from this?”

“Our protection...information...but most importantly, we will leave you alone.” Something behind Gabriel’s smile crops up—a crack in the facade. Something that reminds him of Lucifer. Something that makes him want to shrink in a hole. 

“Is that a threat?” He furrows his brows.

Gabriel doesn’t reply but the intensity in his eyes as he observes him quietly is eloquent enough. He hears Aziraphale shift uncomfortably on one foot. Aziraphale who has yet to say a word in this.

Crowley is well aware of the threat looming over him now. But Gabriel is a fool if he thinks intimidation is going to change his mind about the offer. Arms still crossed, he opts to challenge Gabriel. Nothing better to hide his own discomfort than to pull out the claws—or well, the fangs, in his case. 

“Did anyone ever tell you you’re really bad at this bargaining game? Yeah, no thanks. I’ll pass.” This conversation is over, he wants to add. Truth be told, he wants nothing more than to flee the room before Gabriel tries something to prevent him from doing just that. 

Gabriel doesn’t make a move when he turns around, opens the door and leaves. He lets him go, doesn’t try to go after him. Crowley even worries briefly that he won’t be able to leave at all. His doubts, however, fly away quickly when he finally reaches the entrance of the building at the end of the corridor, and he steps outside, gently welcomed by the fresh air of the night. There’s some movement behind him, but Crowley couldn’t care less. If it’s Gabriel, he will remind him where he can stick it. He already started putting some distance between himself and the building when he hears Aziraphale’s voice behind his back.

“Please, wait!”

Crowley slows down but doesn’t stop. He still wants a discussion with Aziraphale, but not before they’re far enough from the place they just exited. Walls have ears. Aziraphale pauses a second or two behind him, observing his back. And for a moment, Crowley thought he abandoned the pursuit, but he hears steps again, following him quietly. 

It’s not until they reach a bus stop and there’s no one around but them that Crowley finally comes to a halt and turns around. Aziraphale is still pretty hell-bent on avoiding eye-contact. He stands a few steps away from Crowley and looks hesitant, looking for words. 

Crowley sighs. He flops nonchalantly onto a bench and gestures with his hand, inviting Aziraphale to join him, allowing him to take his time. Oddly, Aziraphale doesn’t move.

“Listen, I haven’t got all night.” Well. Technically he does, but prompting Aziraphale to meet his eyes, at last, seemed appropriate.

And it’s working. Finally, Aziraphale looks at him and opens his mouth. “I’m so-”

Crowley grunts, still rattled by his encounter with Gabriel. “If you’re here just to say you’re sorry, I don’t want to hear it.”

Aziraphale falls silent instantly. “I...didn't think Gabriel would do this,” he says again, after a while. 

“What happened? At the library.” Crowley chooses to ask, instead of focusing on his earlier discussion with Gabriel. 

“... You passed out—a terrible habit of yours!” Aziraphale gives him an amused smile as Crowley splutters a protest, thoroughly displeased as he is to be reminded of that embarrassing fact. He wants to correct Aziraphale and tell him that he was resting his eyes, which is very different, but Aziraphale resumes speaking. “Gabriel arrived with a few of us after that. They saw you and asked me about you. And...look. I know I’m not the best liar, but I only told Gabriel you helped me against the…'thing’ we saw. Nothing more.”

“Nothing more?”

It’s either in the way Aziraphale first frowns in confusion, or in the way his furrowed brows raise when he realizes what it is that Crowley feared he revealed, but when Aziraphale repeats a decisive “Nothing more”, Crowley believes him. 

Yet, there are things he still can’t wrap his head around and he needs to ask, “There was a girl...Mary, I believe? She said you suggested I should join your Order.” 

Aziraphale shakes his head. “It doesn’t look like Gabriel believed me when I described the drude that attacked us... Ultimately it was his decision to bring you here. I don’t know what Mary heard, but I wasn’t aware of what Gabriel had in mind until he spoke to you.” 

“M'lright, but you looked guilty as hell in that office, earlier,” Crowley points out.

“I—” Aziraphale looks surprised that Crowley noticed his behavior. “You looked angry. I was worried you were angry with me…” Crowley’s heart sinks. In a turn of events, he’s the one feeling remorseful now. And to make things worse, Aziraphale adds, “I didn’t get the chance to say before, but…thank you. For saving my life.”

“Well. I owed you one, didn’t I?” 

“I guess you did…” Aziraphale conceded. “I do wonder where that dr— … Or I guess I should say where those drudes came from. You came to the library for them as well, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. Sensed them. Same for you?”

“Well. We can’t ‘sense’ them really, but Gabriel knows how to detect where they are. And then he sent me there.”

“Just you?” Crowley eyes him with curiosity.

At long last, Aziraphale decides to take a few steps towards Crowley. “Lately it’s been mostly just me, yes,” he says as he sits next to him.

“What about the others?”

Aziraphale smooths down the fabric of his waistcoat and shifts uncomfortably on his seat, trying to disguise his vexation with pretended indifference. “Gabriel seems to trust me… I guess?”

Crowley hums, incredulous, and drops the subject before he upsets Aziraphale any further. “Looks like you were right about one thing, though.”

“Which is?”

“Evolving drudes. Never seen one like that before. I wonder what that means.”

“Probably nothing good…”

“Probably.”

Aziraphale looks and sounds a lot more like the person Crowley remembered from their previous meetings now, in the way that he radiates feelings and communicates them to Crowley. Feelings like anguish, or on the contrary peacefulness… Aziraphale is currently slowly shifting from the first to the latter. And it’s so powerful, that soothing feeling, that all traces of Crowley’s previous irritation vanish completely. He watches Aziraphale from the corner of his eye when yet another feeling touches him. It’s a gentle one, knocking politely at the door of his soul, enquiring. 

“You never told me your name,” says Aziraphale.

“You never asked.”

“Well. I am asking now.”

His name. Crowley is delighted Aziraphale finally asked, but what a good question. Since he became human, he started to use Anthony for himself and the people interacting with him. Crowley thinks for a second that he could reveal his true name, but he likes his human identity. “Crowley” is linked to a past he can’t even remember; to a status out of reach anymore. If Aziraphale must know him by a name and if Crowley must choose, right now, which of his identities he favors, he finds, surprisingly fast, that it’s the mortal one that he wants to share first and foremost. For Aziraphale to know his origins is a thought that gives him solace, but that he can remember Crowley as what he has become instead is even more comforting. 

“... Anthony,” he answers, his decision taken.

“I don’t know why I expected something else.”

“You don’t have to like it.”

“I didn’t say that. It just doesn’t sound very ‘god-like’,” Aziraphale points out. 

“It’s my human name.”

“Oh. What about your god name then?”

Crowley should have seen this coming, he really should have. Yet it still comes as a surprise when Aziraphale inquires for more details about his past. “Just call me Anthony, would you?” he says, unable to hide the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

“... If that is what you prefer.” 

“It is.” Crowley fishes inside his pocket to retrieve Aziraphale’s small address book. Aziraphale looks at the book in confusion as Crowley hands it to him and speaks again. “I went to the bookshop. You weren’t there.” 

“Ah, yes. That would be because I’m living in Saint Beryl’s convent at the moment.” 

“Saint B-... Did something happen?”

“Well, yes. I, um…I was ‘visited’ by drudes.” 

Crowley’s brows shoot up. “ ‘ _Visited_ ’?” 

“...Now, now. No need to worry, nothing happened, really,” Aziraphale says in an attempt to calm him down, but Crowley notices how his hands clutch his pants tightly, in spite of the reassuring words. “It is true, however, that they tried to break into the bookshop. I was lucky Gabriel was with me when they appeared. We were able to sweep them off easily. And yet he kept insisting that it wasn’t safe for me to stay there—to be honest, I think he never really was too keen on the bookshop idea… I do miss it, though.” He marks a small pause and Crowley can _hear_ the gears rotating in his head. “Why do you think Gabriel asked you to join us? Are you sure you don’t want to? Saint Beryl’s protection is a thing you should give a thought to. You would find it hard to believe, but this is a rather powerful Order.” 

“Is it? And they can’t even send more of you guys to fight off drudes?” he says and watches as Aziraphale frowns. Crowley foolishly believes it’s because he managed to get Aziraphale to think how much his Order reeks of dishonesty. “No, Aziraphale. I’m positive I don’t want to be part of your lot. And don’t take it the wrong way, but that Gabriel guy gives me the heebie-jeebies.” 

Aziraphale’s mouth twitches in disapproval, but he doesn’t try to argue. Crowley almost regrets his words when he notices how gloomy Aziraphale looks now. He tries a different approach. “Why the offer anyway? And to threaten me the moment I say I don’t want to? Think about it, it makes no sense at all.”

“I don’t think Gabriel was threatening you,” Aziraphale retorts with a reprobating voice. 

Crowley shrugs it off. If Aziraphale wants to stay in denial, there is little he can do to change his mind about it. Crowley doesn’t know Gabriel, after all. But the way Aziraphale keeps changing posture on his seat like he’s being repeatedly poked in his side doesn’t go unnoticed, and tells Crowley he struck a chord. 

They sit in silence now. Long enough that the tension visible in Aziraphale’s shoulders slowly loosens its grasp on them. Long enough that the night wraps its arms around both men gently, embracing them in a warm bubble of deep silence. It’s so peaceful Crowley can hear a duck waking up to preen its feathers assiduously in the pond situated a few yards behind the bus stop. He takes it as his cue to leave before his ears can focus on something entirely different, audible in the stillness of the after-hours. Like Aziraphale’s breathing, for example, and how it lulls him into sleep; how it lures him closer on the bench when he’s not paying attention, head drooping dangerously low, towards an inviting shoulder.

“I gotta get goin’,” he says all of a sudden, almost waking himself up with the abruptness of his own statement. 

Aziraphale reaches with one of his hands and almost touches Crowley’s arm like he wants to stop him, but he doesn’t follow through the movement and withdraws it as quickly as he held it out. He does stop Crowley from leaving, but with an inquiry that seems to have been burning the tip of his tongue since he saw him again in Gabriel’s office.

“I was hoping you would tell me about…that thing you did with your body,” he says and Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Back in the library,” Aziraphale hurries to clarify before Crowley gets the wrong idea.

“Oh, that.” Crowley understands Aziraphale is speaking of the moment he shifted partially into his snake form. “To be honest with you, I almost never do that. Too exhausting. Can be convenient at times, though. Like, against that thing we fought? Definitely came in handy. But I’m sorta powerless afterward, so…” Crowley pulls a face. Never fun, reminding himself of that specific offset. “If it’s just my fangs it’s alright. Changing more of my body? No thanks.”

“So you are… what? A snake deity?”

Crowley’s lips curve in a half-smile, amused as he is that Aziraphale would make such an assumption. It makes sense that he would, but Crowley finds it funny nonetheless. 

“Nah, not really.” He shakes his head and thinks about how to explain this shape-shifting ability he possesses. There are things mortals can’t comprehend, but he can still try to find a way to put it into words. “A god can change shape as many times and ways they like, but this is different. This is... _residue_ of a power, tied with one of my past identities.” Crowley thinks how Lucifer gave him the possibility to shift back into a snake when and as much he pleases the times he tested out how much he was given back. He found out, however, that it was the only form he could claim. He often wondered if it served as a reminder of the gods’ judgment—of his loss of freedom. It has its utilities, though. He quickly learned he could use his fangs to kill drudes—if only one at a time. 

Aziraphale hums a vague retort in acknowledgment. “Can you change into whatever you like, then?”

“That’d be nice. But no.” Crowley half-expected a comment or more questions, but nothing comes. He examines Aziraphale’s face attentively. It is unreadable. Aziraphale is thinking and he is thinking _loudly_ again, but if he’s making something of Crowley’s statements, it’s hard to tell what exactly. “You do know I’m going down that vault under the library, right?” he says again, incapable to endure that silence any longer.

“Yes… I expected that much.”

“Just because…” Crowley trails off, not entirely certain where he’s going with his next words. “Listen. Just because I didn’t accept Gabriel’s offer doesn’t mean we’re on opposite sides. Just so you know.” 

Aziraphale smiles patiently. “Anthony. Are you telling me you’re scared to go down there on your own?” There’s a hint of amusement in his voice and Crowley takes the bait instantly.

“What? No. Obviously not. I’m not scared. Not a thing can scare me. _I_ scare things.” 

He realizes too late that Aziraphale intended that reaction and now that he sees him laughing softly, Crowley can only think of it as retribution for his own teasing the last time they saw each other. It’s only fair, he thinks.

“That is to say,” Aziraphale follows up, “I was actually hoping you would come.”

Crowley makes a quizzical sound, to which Aziraphale finally shares what crossed his mind.

“I was planning to go down there myself, but with the police, it’s going to be hard breaking in unnoticed.” 

“Didn’t your boss just say no one was allowed there or did I hear that wrong?”

“Gabriel is not my ‘boss’,” Aziraphale whines slightly. “And he didn’t _technically_ say I couldn’t explore. He only said not to meddle with the inspector’s work and I have no intention of doing that,” He points out. “... To be honest with you, I’m worried. There are drudes down there! I don’t understand why Gabriel was so quick to agree with the police… It feels wrong, I can’t stand staying there, doing nothing about it,” he says, wistfully. ”And maybe I am a little bit curious as well...” He admits, though Crowley has to strain his ears to hear that last part.

Crowley is, admittedly, amazed by such a confession and he gives Aziraphale a look of appraisal. It seemed to him that Aziraphale was more inclined to follow orders. He guessed that wrong, apparently. 

“Well then. Knock yourself out,” he says, shoving the tip of his hands in his pockets. “Though...not sure I follow. What difference does it make if I come with you or- Oh no.” Crowley has suddenly a solid idea of what crossed Aziraphale’s mind. “No,” he grumbles, absolutely certain now that Aziraphale wants him to use his other form so they can get inside the library. “No, no, no. It’s a no. I only use that power as a last resort.” 

“Oh but, give it a thought, would you?” Aziraphale tries to persuade him with pleading eyes. “I could really use your help.”

“I’ll…think about it.”

“Well don’t think too much. If we would hope to see what’s under that library, tonight is our best chance to do that. I will meet you there in an hour from now.” 

Crowley nods absently. Clearly, Aziraphale has already decided for him that he will be part of his expedition. Crowley doesn’t mind, really. He said he was going there himself anyway, so there’s no point in going alone, especially when he fears the drudes they fought off earlier are still somewhere, down in that pit. 

He looks at Aziraphale. In spite of the tranquil expression he is wearing now, there is a weariness underneath it all. Crowley knows he’s staring, but he can’t help it. Aziraphale fascinates him. Humans in general are curious, intriguing creatures with amazing diversities. Of course, they’re all interesting. But Aziraphale stands out in a way that he keeps stunning Crowley—choosing paths he didn’t anticipate Aziraphale would pick, or saying things he didn’t predict—It’s a little unsettling, to say the least. But unsettling doesn’t mean unpleasant. It means Crowley wants to learn more. He wants the unpredictable to become predictable. If Aziraphale will allow him to get closer. 

Crowley remembers Aziraphale never even tried to push him away. Quite the contrary actually. He brought him to his home, saved his life, gave him the means to contact him, and is now literally requesting his help. Crowley is rather confident he doesn’t have to worry about getting permission to stay around. Aziraphale seems to genuinely enjoy his company. It’s in the way he looks at him, and in the way that what is true for Crowley is true for Aziraphale as well: they want to know more about each other. 

It is not the first time in the last five years that Crowley interacts with humans. It is the first time, however, that he wants one of them to see him as what he truly is. He can’t disclose everything, of course. Lucifer wouldn’t allow it. But it’s a nice thought. His solitary life is already starting to feel more bearable now that he’s shared his secret with someone. To think that Aziraphale is aware of his divine nature, that he is the first and only human Crowley ever met who knows about it, gives Crowley an intense itch to reveal more. Mainly when Aziraphale unmistakably wants more details himself. Which, as Crowley found, is an exceedingly nice feeling. 

Aziraphale is shivering in the cold. In his hurry to run after Crowley, he didn’t bring a vest with him. It rouses something inside Crowley. Something raw and unforeseen that makes him want to reciprocate, fiercely, the kindness he’s been shown for the first time in a _long_ time. 

There’s no one else around, no prying eyes… A little bit of magic will go unnoticed. 

Aziraphale jumps in bewilderment when a vest, somewhat similar in color to the sweater he gave Crowley weeks ago, suddenly materializes on his shoulders. It takes him a few minutes before he understands what just happened. His head jolts up to look at Crowley. 

Crowley swallows with difficulty. “See you in an hour.” He bolts, desperate to find himself alone so he can digest the softness with which Aziraphale replied ‘ _thank you_ ’. 


End file.
